


Where Have You Been All My Life? No, Really, Where The Hell Were You?

by Eiiri



Series: Post-Apocalyptic (or Domestic X-Men Drama) [1]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bilingual Dialogue, Charles and Erik Have a Weird Relationship, Charles and Erik are Charles and Erik, Charles is Terrifying, Charles is a Meddling Meddler who Meddles, Combative Relationship, Don't Worry The German Gets Translated, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Healing, Erik is Peter's Father, Ever Notice How Many X-Men Speak German?, Family is important, Jean is Fed Up With All This Drama, M/M, Peter Does NOT Speak German, Post-X-Men: Apocalypse (2016), Raven is Kurt's mother, Redeemed Erik, She Doesn't Want To Hear It, Slow Burn, These People Think Really Loud, This Wasn't Supposed To Be Slow Burn, WE GONNA LEARN DEUTSCH, Warren is a Git, does this count as Slow Burn?, kurt is adorable, parenting is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2018-11-22 16:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11384025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eiiri/pseuds/Eiiri
Summary: After helping defeat Apocalypse and rebuild the school, Erik Lehnsherr has the best chance he's had in a long time to try this whole "good guy" thing again--Charles is going to make sure he takes it, even if it means meddling in family matters.  Meanwhile, Charles is trying to run a school, Raven is trying to figure out how to be a mom to a teenager she just met, Peter is going a little insane stuck on crutches, and Kurt and Warren are screaming at each other in German about Lord knows what.Just an ordinary end of the school year in upstate New York, right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This deviates from canon right after X-Men: Apocalypse.  
> There is German-language dialogue, but do not fear! Hover over the German for a translation, or scroll to the note at the end of each chapter for an English transcript of that chapter's German.

Erik  _was_ leaving. But Charles had some parting words: "Do say goodbye to your son on the way out."

Erik stopped in his tracks and turned back to Charles. "I don't have a son."

"Oh," Charles said in what seemed like extremely disingenuous surprise, "I thought he'd introduced himself already."

The sounds of chitchat, footsteps, and the tap of crutches came through into the entryway as the elevator opened down the hall just as Erik demanded, "What are you talking about, Charles?"

"I'm so sorry, I was sure he'd told you."

"Who?!"

The footsteps and crutch taps stopped. Standing stunned in the mouth of the hallway were Peter on his crutches, flanked by Kurt and Scott, with Raven bringing up the rear. Peter gaped at the Professor. "You  _told_ him?!"

Kurt and Scott reflexively grabbed Peter by his jacket.

"Well, I hadn't actually told him it was  _you_ ," Charles hedged. 

Erik looked at Peter, then at Charles, then back at Peter, then he started for the door.

"Erik!" Raven stepped around the kids and caught Erik by the sleeve.

"I don't know him," Erik snapped, yanking his sleeve from her grasp.

"My mother is Lena Maximoff. You know her?" Peter asked sharply.

Erik shook his head and rolled his eyes. "I might've gotten drunk with her once. If you'll excuse me."

"I cannot believe you," Raven spat. "Walking away from a one night stand? Okay, fine, it was a one night stand. But you—you, with your whole thing about just wanting your family but the world always tears whatever family you have away from you—you're seriously about to knowingly walk away from your own son? What is wrong with you?"

"As if you haven't done the same," Erik countered coldly, stomping back over to loom over her.

Raven's eyes widened and she sucked in a breath. "How do you—?" She shook her head. "It doesn't matter how you know. I had no choice. I didn't  _want_ to abandon him. And I went back for him!" she asserted with a sharp gesture in the boys' general direction. "When he really needed someone, I was there! I made sure he wound up somewhere he'd be taken care of. It's nowhere near enough, but it's a hell of a lot more than you're doing for  _your_ son."

The corner of Erik's mouth twitched.

"Um," Kurt raised a hand, "sorry to interrupt but, you sort of pointed at us when you said about the kid you apparently had. These both know their mothers," he gestured at Peter and Scott, "so I would like to know if I need to be having an identity crisis now or no?"

"No need for a crisis," Raven replied curtly without turning away from Erik.

"Okay," Kurt said uncertainly, "but  _are_ you my mother, or...?"

Raven took a breath. Erik arched a challenging eyebrow at her. She sighed, turned to Kurt, and nodded. "I am."

"Okay." Kurt took a breath. "Okay, well, I don't know what to do with that information."

"At least she's not leaving," Peter muttered. "Again."

"I didn't leave you before," Erik said exasperatedly. "I didn't know you existed. Technically,  _you didn't_ ."

Peter crossed his arms, quite a feat while propped up on crutches. "Yeah, well, you didn't wrap it so you knew you were leaving  _something_ behind."

"Damn...." Scott said under his breath.

"Well," Kurt breathed, "this just got very awkward, and I have things to process, so, I'm going to just go now." He nodded once then vanished in a puff of blue-black smoke.

Everyone left in the entryway watched the smoke drift and fade away. Raven looked to the stairs. "I should go talk to him."

"Probably," Charles agreed. "Though, you might want to give him a few minutes."

She nodded and slipped away. Peter glowered at Erik. Scott adjusted his hold on the back of Peter's jacket. Erik held his arms out in frustration. "What?" he asked at Peter. "Do you want me to stay here?"

"We do always need more teachers," Charles mentioned calmly.

"How am I supposed to know if I want you around?" Peter snorted coldly, ignoring Charles completely. "You've never been around. For all I know, I can't stand you!" He huffed and glowered at the floor. "Sure as hell don't want you sticking around just 'cause you feel obligated to throw me some kinda pity party or something."

"Then why  _would_ you want me to stay?" Erik stepped around Charles, who wordlessly wheeled out of the way. 

Peter shrugged. "Might be nice to see where I got the weirdness from. And, you know, have a  _dad_ for once." 

He didn't wait for Erik to reply, just yanked his jacket out of Scott's grasp and crutched determinedly away down the hall, grumbling under his breath. Scott raised one finger, then spun on his heel and darted up the stairs, leaving Erik and Charles alone in the entryway. Erik glared. "You did this on purpose."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Charles fixed the button on one of his cuffs. Erik crossed his arms. Charles looked up at him. "Weren't you on your way out?"

"Fuck you, I'm staying," Erik growled and strode off in the opposite direction as his son.

 

Raven paused outside the closed door to Kurt's room, took a breath, smoothed her hair, and knocked. "Kurt? Can we talk?"

There was silence behind the door.

"Kurt, are you in there?"

Inside, there was shuffling followed by footsteps, then the bolt clicked and the door opened. Kurt stood in the doorway, one hand on the door, the other on the frame, his tail low and swishing slowly. They just looked at each other for a long moment.

"Why did you give me up?" He covered it well in his voice, but the kid looked like he might cry.

"Not because I wanted to," she assured him quickly as she carefully prodded him back into the room and shut the door behind them.

"Then why?"

"I was barely older than you are now, sort of on the run, and even less emotionally stable than I am now. I was in no position to take care of you," she explained softly.

Kurt crossed his arms and paced back and forth across his room a few times. "Who is my father?"

"He's dead," she said quickly. She sighed. "And he was a mistake."

"So I was a mistake." His tail swished.

"No." She paused to take a breath.

"Oh, I'm so comforted," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I'm not finished," she said sternly then took another breath. "You were not a mistake. Your father was—he and I were working together but we were at very different places in our lives, and then he died so anywhere that might have gone, things never had a chance to go," she finished diplomatically. "You happened at a bad time, or I would have kept you."

"I'm having trouble believing that." He popped across the room and dropped onto his bed.

"I kept you for nine months," she pointed out softly. He looked up at her, amber eyes peering through the fringe of his hair. She sat on the edge of his mattress. "I talked to you. I'd argue with you—about what I should eat, when you were going to come, if I should keep you when you did. And you'd kick me when I'd argue with you." She poked his foot. "So I took that as your side of the conversation even though everyone and their mother told me there was no way you could understand me. I actually thought you might be a telepath because of that. Even though that didn't make any sense genetically."

"Well, Peter's fast," Kurt mumbled, holding up one palm, "and magnets...." He held up the other palm. "Hereditary is weird."

"Yes, yes it is." She smiled at him. "You make sense though."

He cocked his head to the side. "Could my father teleport?"

"Yeah. And I'm blue." She shrugged. "You might be even stranger for making sense."

He snorted half a laugh and picked at one of his fingernails. "But, if you did all that, why did you still give me away?"

"I nearly died, you nearly died, then I had a massive breakdown and nearly killed someone."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"That's reasonable."

"Glad you think so." She awkwardly patted his knee, then made an odd squeaking sound when he hugged her. She rubbed his back. "Hey...."

"Danke, dass du mich gefunden hast," he murmured into her shoulder. 

"Uh, bitteschön."

He snickered. "Your accent is atrocious."

"I know," she chuckled. "I'm sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German this chapter:  
> Kurt-Thank you for having found me.  
> Raven-Uh, you're welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

"Settled in?"

Erik raised his eyes to the ceiling, then turned to the open door which Charles was just outside of. "Making me a teacher is a horrible idea, Charles."

"You've agreed to it, though." Charles shrugged and rolled casually into the office. Erik had told him at least a dozen times a day since the previous week's confrontation in the entryway that this was a bad idea, and he'd received more or less the same answer every time. Charles picked up a brass paper weight from the desk and bounced it in his hand, evidently surprised by how heavy it was. "The semester is nearly over anyway, you won't be teaching until term starts back in the fall."

"I don't even have a subject."

"You'll figure something out, I'm sure." Charles replaced the paper weight. "Have you talked to Peter?"

The door shut itself solidly. Charles looked at it, then at Erik. "That door is wood."

"With metal hinges."

"Ah, yes, of course." He folded his hands. "Have you talked to him?"

"Not yet."

"You should."

"I think he's avoiding me."

"Oh, he is, but not consciously."

Erik glared at him. "That makes it harder to talk to him."

"I'd suggest putting in the effort to catch him  _before_ his leg heals."

"Remind me how this is any of your business, Charles," Erik snapped.

"I care about you," Charles responded soberly without missing a beat. "About both of you. You want a family, he wants a father. And the two of you are too much alike to come to one another without prodding."

Erik scowled, then reached out to rub Charles's bald head. Charles sighed at him. Erik smirked. "This works on you."

"I miss my hair." Charles  _did not_ pout. 

"It'll grow back. Maybe."

"You're obfuscating."

"Damn you, Charles." The door swung open as Erik walked toward it.

"I'm pretty sure he and Scott are down in the rec room playing Space Invaders," Charles called after him.

Peter and Scott were the only people in the rec room—the weather was nice, so most of the kids were outside. In the wake of the world nearly ending, classes were...relaxed. Peter cursed at the video game. Scott scoffed at him. "What are  _you_ cursing about?"

"Damn game takes too long to respond."

Scott snorted. Erik cleared his throat. "Hey."

The game made a sad "you lost" sound as both boys twisted to look at Erik. Scott got to his feet. "And I'm leaving." He stopped partway to the door and jabbed a finger at Peter, "Don't run," then he left.

Peter sighed. "Hi."

"Hey."

"People have no faith in my self control," Peter complained. He glanced at his crutches. "Might be warranted...."

"Might be hereditary," Erik offered.

"Yeah, this was, what, third time you've tried to take over the world?"

"Not  _take it over_ exactly," Erik hedged. 

Peter snorted. "Viva la revolución?"

"Something like that."

"So,” Peter said slowly, “d'you like football?"

"American football, or  _real_ football?"

"Not soccer, come on."

"No. I'm not much a fan of hand-egg." Erik grinned.

Peter grinned back. After a moment, both their smiles faded. Peter scritched just under the edge of his cast. "This is awkward."

Erik sighed. "I'm...not good with people."

"Me neither." Peter paused. "Hereditary?"

"Possibly." Erik rubbed at his wrist. "I also have a lot of bad experiences with people."

"Yeah, well, I have daddy issues, so there's that."

"My parents were killed."

"My stepfather got shot."

"I was in the holocaust."

"Um. I have two sisters?"

Erik laughed despite himself. "No wonder you're fucked."

"Well, that and my freaking super powers make it hard for me to function with other people."

"We're too slow?"

"You're all so damn slow!" Peter flopped dramatically back across the couch cushions. "Okay, if I talk at what is for me normal speed,  _nobody can understand me_ ."

"That...sounds frustrating."

"You have no idea." He sighed.

Erik cocked his head curiously. "How fast are you exactly?"

"Like twelve times faster than a normal person."

"What's that in miles per hour?"

"Around two hundred." Peter sat up. "Got a local cop back home to measure that for me. Not that he knew that's what he was doing...."

"Did you get arrested?"

"Course not," Peter scoffed indignantly. "He was looking for a car."

"Clever." Erik chuckled.

Peter grinned. "Hey," he reached for a pencil bag on the coffee table, "wanna sign my cast?"

"Uh, sure."

Erik had just finished sharpie-ing his name onto Peter's ankle when there was a soft pop and Kurt leaned on the back of the couch. "Dinner is ready. It's some kind of casserole again."

"Again?" Peter groaned.

Kurt held his hands up. "Miss Rosalinda swears it's different casserole this time."

Peter made a disbelieving face, then made grabby hands at Kurt. "Take me with you."

Kurt rolled his eyes, grabbed Peter and his crutches, and vanished with them in a puff of smoke. Erik shook his head and made his way to the dining room on foot. Most of the student body—all three dozen of them—and most of the faculty and staff were already seated for dinner. Peter was next to Kurt, the crutches leaning against the table between them. Erik considered his seating options: to the other side of Peter, next to the younger girl who did the freaky fire thing, between Jean and Jubilee who were chatting animatedly across the empty chair between them, or between Charles at the end of the table and Ororo. He went for the end of the table. Ororo glanced up at him in the middle of stuffing her mouth with casserole, then returned her attention to her food. Charles pulled a serving dish toward Erik as he sat. "So, how'd the chat go?"

"Du kannst mich mal am Arsch lecken, Charles." Erik served himself some casserole.

Halfway down the table, Kurt choked on his food. Peter gave him a curious, confused look. Kurt waved him off and reached for his drink.

Charles smirked. "Du mich auch."

Kurt spat out his drink.

"Dude, what is your malfunction?" Peter asked, handing Kurt napkins.

"Nothing," Kurt insisted. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

"If you say so...."

Erik snickered into his casserole.

"Well?" Charles asked.

"I'll talk to you later."

"I'm holding you to that."

The rest of dinner passed in relative peace. After the meal, Erik wound up in Charles's room. Charles picked up a stack of essays from his desk, looked at them, then put them back down. "I'll grade these tomorrow. How  _was_ your talk with Peter?"

Erik shrugged. "It was fine."

"Just fine?"

"We talked about football."

"American or Fußball?"

"Yes." Erik crossed his arms. "It was fine, and you're meddling."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Charles grinned fiendishly, then his expression softened. "I'm glad you've stayed."

Erik shrugged dismissively. "My way hasn't been working. Might as well give yours another try."

Charles nodded. "It's good to have you around, old friend," he said softly.

Erik met his eyes for a moment, nodded, then stepped for the door, letting his hand brush Charles's as he passed. "I'm going to bed."

"Sleep well."

"You know I never do."

The door closed behind Erik with a solid click. Charles took a breath, let it out, looked around his room, and went to shower before hauling himself into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German this chapter:  
> Erik: Go fuck yourself, Charles.  
> Charles: Fuck you too.
> 
> The above is a idiomatic translation, literally it's:  
> Erik: You can lick my ass sometime, Charles.  
> Charles: You [can do the same] to me too.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning after breakfast, packets of take-home finals were passed out to the kids. Jean held hers up. "Does this mean we can work collaboratively?"

Charles shrugged. "If you want to."

Kurt raised his hand. "I wasn't here for the actual classes, do I have to make the exam?"

"Yes. Peter, Ororo, that goes for you as well. Work together." Charles wheeled to the door. "If anyone needs me, I'll be in my office, on the phone with the highest ranking government official I can get a hold of, threatening a hate crime suit." With that, he excused himself.

Peter tipped back in his chair. "I like that guy." His chair started to fall and he caught himself on the edge of the table with ease. "So polite, yet so kickass."

"It's because he's British," Raven said absently, munching broken bits of bacon from the bottom of the serving tray while she read the paper. "The accent gives the illusion of formality."

Ororo pulled out the Xeroxed pages of her exam and frowned at them. "What are we supposed to do with this?"

"Basically, pick a prompt and write a paper." Raven folded over the obituary section.

Ororo blinked at her. "Um?"

Raven put her newspaper down. "Have you never written a research paper?"

"No."

"Scott?" Raven intoned.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Oh, jeeze, don't call me ma'am." Raven cringed. "I am not old enough to be a ma'am."

"To be fair," Kurt said, "you do have a nineteen year old son."

"Oh, hush, you." Raven half grinned at him. "Anyway, Scott, would you show Ororo—and Peter and Kurt—the library?"

"I don't read English very well," Ororo pointed out. "At all."

"Well, that complicates things," Peter said.

"Okay, well." Raven leaned her elbows on the table. "I'm officially deciding you're excused from the final and we're going to teach you to read."

Ororo nodded. "That would be useful."

"Maybe you can do a book report," Jubilee suggested brightly.

"I don't know what that is," Ororo said slowly.

Jean got to her feet. "Then I guess we'll just have to teach you."

"To the library!" Peter shoved his chair back and balanced on his good foot. "Kurt, poof me."

"I don't know where the library is," Kurt said sheepishly.

"Ugh, fine." Peter grabbed his crutches and  _tacked_ his way out of the dining room. 

The rest of the kids followed him out, leaving the two new faculty alone in the room. Erik sipped his coffee and spoke up for the first time that morning. "Your kid has a weird accent."

"It's Bavarian with sharp teeth," Raven said boredly as she picked her newspaper back up.

A couple hours later, Raven went to check on the kids in the library. Ororo was slumped at a table, her face pressed to a stack of picture books. "Can I just write it in Swahili?" she groaned.

"I don't think we have any books in Swahili," Scott said from behind a stack of car magazines.

"Peter," Jean said, "go check."

He reached in the direction of the card catalog and wiggled his fingers. "Use the force, Jean."

She gave him an unimpressed look, but his chair slid across to the catalog. There was a blur of activity for a couple minutes, then Peter held up a card. "Uh, we have the Bible in Swahili."

"That's what I learned to read on." Ororo banged her forehead weakly on  _Green Eggs and Ham_ .

"Okay," Raven pulled out the chair across from Ororo. "What kinds of stories do you like?"

"I don't know," Ororo said exasperatedly and sat up, hands on the table. "I don't  _read_ . I learned to read in school but then I quit school and I've never had time to read for fun."

"So, not books then. Movies, TV, gossip—what kinds of stories do you like?"

"Uh. I mean, I watch  _Star Trek_ when it's on."

"What do you like about  _Star Trek_ ?"

"Lieutenant Uhura."

"Why?"

"She looks like me and she's not a maid. Half the time, she's the only sane person on that ship."

Raven got up, scoured the shelves, then came back and dropped two copies of  _Their Eyes Were Watching God_ in front of Ororo —one hardback, one on cassette tape. "There you go. Read along with the audiobook."

Ororo picked up the book and flipped through it, frowning intensely. "I'll try it."

 

Erik walked along the hallway, headed for his office—which he still found strange to call  _his_ —but paused in front of a window, distracted by two men outside, sawing a limb off one of the trees. As far as Erik knew, they didn't have groundskeepers, in which case the men had no business being there; but if they  _did_ have groundskeepers, scaring them off would do no favors for his public image and would probably piss off Charles. He turned on his heel and went back down the hall to Charles's office, intending to ask him if they had groundskeepers, just in case. He let himself in, but stopped just inside the door. Charles was on the phone, his chair turned most of the way toward the windows behind his broad, cherrywood desk, and he was scowling. His voice wasn't raised, but it was flinty and hard—intimidating and enthralling. It was early enough in the day that the light coming in from outside was still very clear and it made the blue of Charles's eyes preternaturally bright. 

"That is no excuse," Charles said with disgust. "My students were attacked and I cannot allow that to pass unchallenged. You ought to be ashamed to serve a government that is willing to willfully endanger children for no reason other than that those children were born to be the slightest bit different from their peers. If this had happened at any other school in the country, people would be  _at least_ getting sacked already."

Erik scarcely dared breathe. There were few things in nature as formidable as an angry Charles Xavier. It was a little like watching a predator mid hunt—undeniably dangerous, but beautiful, majestic in its power. And alluring. Something that you want to reach out and touch, to feel the strength beneath the skin for yourself, no matter how bad of an idea it was.

He realized belatedly that Charles was off the phone, had turned around, and was staring at him. Erik bristled. "Get out of my head!" he spat, and quickly fled the room, slamming the door behind him without touching it or meaning to. He didn't stop until he'd gotten to his bedroom on the other side of the school. He dropped onto the edge of his bed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, touched the locket that lay under his shirt.  _Less than a month ago,_ he reminded himself.  _Less than a month ago you were living in Poland_ . He took another breath. Then another. 

There was a gentle knock at the door. Erik jumped to his feet as the door opened and Charles inched in. "I wasn't," he said softly. "Reading your mind, I mean." He gave an awkward half shrug. "Then I didn't have to."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Erik crossed his arms across his chest.

Charles came the rest of the way into the room and carefully shut the door. "Erik, I know what people look like when they're attracted to someone—and when they're scared they've been found out."

Erik stalked away to stare unseeingly out the window.

"It's alright, Erik," Charles said gently. The wheels of his chair made a quiet rattling sound against the floor. "I'm anything but offended."

"I was married until three weeks ago," Erik said sternly.

The sound of the wheels stopped. For a moment, Charles didn't say anything. "Now you're lonely and grieving," he murmured. "And guilty, for more than you're prepared to face."

"Get  _out_ ," Erik growled. 

"I'm not in your head, Erik."

Erik glared at him. "Are you sure?"

Charles made a sweeping gesture. "Have you got your helmet around here?"

"Yes." Erik glanced under the bed.

"If you're so suspicious—and so opposed to the notion—why don't you put it on?"

Erik continued to glare.

"I am good at reading people," Charles said. "I'm good at reading you. Even without my abilities."

Erik looked back out the window. Out on the lawn, Ms. Rosalinda, the cook, was chatting with the groundskeepers who apparently were, in fact, the school groundskeepers.

Charles came around the bed and stopped next to him. "Tell me about them?"

Startled, Erik looked down at him sharply.

"Your wife and daughter," Charles clarified. "Tell me about them?"

Erik opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. "I can't."

"Then let me see?" Charles suggested in barely more than a whisper.

Erik stared at him. "I don't think you want to."

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because I really don't want to see what'll happen to you if you let this sit and eat at you."

Erik glanced away. He took a breath. The brass latch of the door flicked shut. Charles held up a hand. Erik took it and closed his eyes. He let the memories wash over him, a mal-ordered jumble. Nina, barely two years old, toddling down the hall toward him, arms outstretched in a wordless request to be picked up. Magda kissing his hair, her hand over his atop her pregnant belly. Nina talking to a blackbird at her bedroom window. Nina asking if he'd be taken away from her like his parents were from him. Magda smiling at him the first time they met. Both of them dead in his arms.

He opened his eyes and yanked his hand away from Charles to scrub the tears away. Charles was crying too, eyes still closed, damp tracts down his cheeks. He slowly lifted his gaze to Erik's face and gave a pained smile. "You love them so much."

Erik nodded, throat too tight to speak.

"Thank you," Charles murmured sincerely. He took Erik's hand in both of his. "Thank you."

"For what?" Erik's voice was rougher than he wanted it to be.

"For showing me." Charles reached up and brushed a tear from Erik's chin. Erik pulled back. Charles lowered his hand.

Erik closed his eyes again. "I can't do this."

Charles pressed his lips into a line, nodded, and made for the door. Then his chair stopped moving and skidded backward. "Erik...?"

"If you didn't want me doing that, you'd have a plastic chair by now," Erik muttered.

"So, you want me to stay?" Charles asked cautiously, returning to the window.

"Just, don't leave."

Charles laced his fingers through Erik's. "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No German this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

Over the next week, the students worked on their essays and those who were going home for the summer started packing their things away. Ororo, who didn't have anywhere to go home to, and Peter, whose mother was glad to have him out of the basement, weren't bothering to pack. They were sprawled on a sheet on the lawn, both laying on their backs, a conveniently positioned cloud shading them them from the sun in an otherwise clear sky. Ororo had headphones on, a Walkman sitting on her tummy, and she was holding up her book to read along. Peter's leg was propped up on a stack of pillows. He'd managed to churn out a ten page paper about morality in the Star Wars films in two days, so now he was working his way through a stack of books taller than his stack of pillows.

There was a soft pop, and suddenly Kurt was standing over them, holding open a book. "What's this word?" he asked, tapping at the page.

"Ask Peter," Ororo said without looking up.

Kurt shifted the book toward Peter. Peter lay his current book, _Peyton Place,_ open on his chest to keep his place and reached up to take Kurt's book. "Hm. No idea. Looks like science."

"Of course it's science," Kurt said exasperatedly. "It's Carl Sagan. All he does is science."

"I don't know." Peter shrugged and handed the book back. "Ask your mother."

Kurt sighed. "That is still so weird...."

"You're telling me," Peter said.

"At least you knew he was your father." Kurt arched an eyebrow.

"Fair point." Peter picked his book up from his chest.

Kurt cocked his head curiously. "What's that about?"

"Mostly explicit sex," Peter replied. He was turning the page almost once every six seconds. "I stole it from the Professor's office."

Kurt recoiled slightly. "I did not need to know he had books like that."

"He's a grown man." Peter smirked. "He can read what he wants."

"Why are  _you_ reading it?"

"I'm bored and I found it."

"You really shouldn't take other people's things, you know."

"I mean, I'm gonna put it back." Peter shrugged.

"Would the two of you  _shut up_ ," Ororo growled. 

Kurt poofed away. Peter laughed and kept reading his filthy, pilfered book.

 

"Do we have a count of how many kids are staying for the summer?" Charles asked of the rest of the faculty. They were having an end of semester meetings in the dining room while the kids who hadn't yet, scrambled to finish their finals before Charles hunted them down and took whatever crap they'd managed to write.

"I know of three," Raven said. "Kurt, Peter, and Ororo."

"And Jubilee," Hank added. "Her parents are going on a cruise and she'd rather not be stuck on a boat, given that she causes spontaneous combustion and doesn't quite have control of that."

"Fair enough." Charles made a note on the paperwork he had in front of him. "So four."

"Sounds like four," Erik agreed disinterestedly. He didn't know why he had to be there for the meeting and he was only half paying attention. At most. When the meeting finally ended, Erik headed upstairs. He had gotten most of the way to the first landing when there was a knock at the front door. He stopped.

Ororo, who was crossing the entryway, altered her course to answer the door. She opened the door, then immediately slammed it shut and stomped away. Erik watched her go. There was another knock. Erik trotted back down the stairs to answer it as curious gawkers began to appear in the hallway. He opened the door to find Warren Worthington III standing on the front patio, looking rather bedraggled, a frayed duffle bag at his feet. " _What's her problem_ ?" Warren asked in German.

Erik glanced behind him. " _No idea,_ " Erik responded in the same language. 

" _Can I come in_ ?"

" _Well, you make number three out of four_ _horsemen_ ," Erik said, stepping back to let Warren in. 

" _Is number four dead_ ?" Warren asked as he grabbed his bag and came in. 

" _No idea_ ." Erik eyed Warren's back as he passed. " _You're back to feathers?_ "

"Yeah. Guess so." Warren shrugged a little, switching to British accented English. "I woke up in a church about a week ago without any feathers, metal or otherwise...."

There was faint pop and Kurt appeared at the front of the group of rubberneckers. "Wait. How are you not dead? I definitely saw an airplane crash on you."

"Yeah, because you crashed it on me, dickwad." Warren dropped his bag and stepped toward Kurt.

Kurt held his hands up. "I'm sorry. You were trying to kill me. And most of the rest of the world, for that matter."

" _I_ wasn't," Warren objected. "Apocalypse was."

"And you were helping him!" Kurt tossed his hands up. "Also, since when are you British?"

"I've always been British," Warren scoffed.

"You speak really good German," Kurt said with an air of betrayal.

"Oh, shut up."

Kurt was about to respond when the crowd parted to let Charles through. "Angel, is it?" Charles asked pleasantly. Kurt huffed and poofed away.

Warren glared at the spot Kurt had been, then turned to Charles. "Yeah, I get called that."

"Do you prefer to be called something else?"

"My name's Warren."

"Well then, Warren," Charles said, "what brings you here?"

"I'm homeless," Warren said dully. "And if I stayed where I was I was going to get worshiped and/or fucked by nuns, and I'm not about that."

Charles nodded slowly. "Those are good reasons. I presume you'll be wanting to stay for the summer?"

"Yeah."

"Wonderful." Charles smiled. "Why don't you come upstairs with me and we'll sort enrolling you."

"Uh, alright."

Warren followed Charles to the elevator.

Among the onlookers, Scott looked around at Erik. "What just happened?"

"No idea." Erik turned and finally made his way up the stairs. He'd showered, changed, and lain on his bed with a bound volume of plays by Berthold Brecht when there was a tentative knock at his door. He sighed. "Yes?"

The door crept open and Peter's silvery head peeked in. "Uh, hi. What does  _dumkopf_ mean?"

Erik blinked at him. "Stupid-head."

"Okay. That makes sense."

"Why?"

"Kurt and new kid started yelling at each other again." Peter shrugged and his elbow bumped the door open farther, revealing that he was propped on his crutches. "It switched to German real quick."

"Ah. Okay."

"Yeah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the German this chapter is rendered in English.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All translations this chapter are idiomatic because the literal of a few things just doesn't make much sense in English.

In the hallway of the students' dorms, standing in front of their respective bedroom doors, Kurt and Warren screamed at each other while the other kids either looked on in horrified fascination, or hid as far away as possible.

"Du hast meine Flügel gebrannt, du Scheißkerl!" Warren spat, gesturing at his left wing.

"Du worden Gesund!" Kurt threw his hands up exasperatedly. "Und ich hab' schon entschuldigt!"

"Das ist mir scheißegal!"

Jean's door opened suddenly and she stamped her foot. "Would you two shut up?!"

As one, they pointed at each other. "Yell at him, it's his fault!"

She glared sharply at Kurt. He payed her no attention. "It is  _not_ my fault," he denied emphatically. 

"Which one of us got maimed?" Warren asked facetiously. "Oh yeah, me."

"You told me to fight!"

"I meant throw a fucking punch!"

Jean made a sound of frustration, "I swear if this keeps up I'm going to kill at least one of you," and slammed her door back closed.

"Cobalt freak," Warren muttered then slammed his own door.

Kurt huffed, "Arschloch," and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Warren kicked the dresser with the heel of his boot, looked around the bare, cookie cutter room, wrestled his way out of his shirt, and flopped face down on the bed and its plain white sheets. He let out a long breath and carefully stretched out his wings—they were still sore and they itched horribly from the feathers growing back in. Come to think of it, most of him was sore. At least he wasn't dead.

 

Peter slid down the wall next to the phone bank until he was sat on the floor, bad leg sticking out in front of him, the ring back buzzing intermittently in his ear. It was the last day of term and everyone who wasn't staying was on their way out. He waved to Scott as the other boy passed with a suitcase. The line picked up. "Maximoff residence."

"Hi, Mom."

"Oh! Peter, honey, hi! How are you? Everything is calming down from the whole saving the world thing, right?"

"Yes, Mom. Everything's fine. I'm fine."

"That's good," she sighed in his ear, making the phone burst with static. "How's your leg?"

"I'm on crutches for another four weeks and I'm going to go insane," Peter groaned.

"Does it at least hurt less?"

Peter could  _hear_ his mother twisting the hem of her shirt between her fingers. He tipped his head back against the wall. "Yeah, it's getting better. Wanda's finals are next week, right?"

"That's right."

"Cool." A few feet down from Peter, a door opened and Erik came through, looking more than done with the crazy of moveout. Peter took a breath. "I should probably mention I found dad."

Erik stopped walking. On the phone, Peter's mother made a strangled sound of surprise. "You did what now?"

"I found dad," Peter repeated, looking up at Erik who was staring at him in something close to horror. "He was sorta involved in the whole saving the world thing. Wasn't actually gonna tell him, but he found out anyway." Peter held the phone to his chest while his mother squawked. "By the way, I have a twin sister," he told Erik.

"As soon as your sister is done with school, we're coming to visit," Peter's mother said decisively while Erik ran a hand over his face.

"Awesome." Peter stuck his tongue out at Erik. His crutches slid to the other side of the hall as Erik walked away. "Whoa, hey! I need those, asshole! No, Mom, everything is fine, you just got knocked up by an  _immature dick_ ! Gimme my crutches back!"

"I didn't touch them," Erik called back innocently as he pressed the elevator call button.

"You didn't have to! Mom, I'll call you again later, okay?" He stretched awkwardly to put the phone back on the hook. "Come on, I know it was you, gimme my crutches back!"

"I didn't do anything."

Peter glared. "You are  _definitely_ my sister's father and shittiness is hereditary."

Erik smirked to himself and got on the elevator. Peter huffed and slid down until he was flat on his back on the floor.

 

Breakfast the next morning was a little strange. The dining table seemed awfully big with only ten people at it. Kurt bowed his head over his food, eyes closed. Warren glared at him. "What are you doing?"

Kurt opened one eye then looked up. "Praying," he said like it was obvious.

"Why?" Warren asked incredulously.

Jean groaned and dropped her face into her hands.

"I'm Catholic." Kurt straightened up proudly in his chair.

"Well that's not _altmodisch_ at all," Warren said derisively. 

Kurt bristled. "I do not take kindly to you disrespecting my faith."

Warren gave a short laugh. "Do I look like I care?"

"Well, with the wings, you look like you ought to."

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Warren scoffed.

"Boys," Charles warned gently.

"He started it!" Kurt objected. "I was just praying.  _Quietly_ . I wasn't bothering anybody."

"You were bothering me." Warren crossed his arms.

"How?!"

"By being weird."

"I was just praying!"

"And it was weird!"

"Now that's just rude," Peter said around a mouth full of tater tots.

"Yeah, I'm going have to draw a line at not leaving people in peace to their religious practices," Erik said, casually rolling up his sleeves. Warren glanced at him, then, with a look of revelation, glanced down at the tattoo on his arm. Warren hunched in his seat, shoved food in his mouth, and shut up. Jean gave Erik an intense look of gratitude. He nodded to her.

Kurt huffed, tail flicking against the floor. "Danke." He finished praying, steadfastly ignoring Warren's grumbles, then ate his breakfast.

From that point, a fight broke out between Warren and Kurt roughly once every three hours. By Monday, Peter, Ororo, and Jubilee were placing bets on when, where, and how the next tiff was going to start, and how close Jean was going to come to making good on her threat to kill them. The faculty were extremely tempted to join the betting pool themselves.

Peter and Ororo sat on the stairs, watching Kurt and Warren screaming at each other about—shoes, maybe? It was in German. Ororo was munching on cheese puffs and Peter had a notepad balanced on his good knee, making note of German words to ask Erik about that he was definitely misspelling.

Kurt's tail flicked angrily. "Warum interessierst du für es, dass ich nur drei Zehen habe?!"

Peter clicked his pen and wrote "zayen" in his notes.

The front door opened and Scott came in, backpack on, duffle bag in one hand, suitcase handle in the other. His entrance had the blessed effect of at least temporarily derailing the argument. The four people in the entryway stared at him. He dropped his duffle and sighed. "Yeah, I'm back."

"Welcome back," Peter said brightly.

A door opened upstairs and Raven leaned over the railing at the top of the stairs. "The yelling stopped, should I be worried that someone's dead? Oh. Hi, Scott."

"Hey, Mystique."

"What are you doing back?"

"My parents expect me to be a, what do you call those women hired to cry at funerals? Carpideiras? Yeah. That. They expect me to be doing that so we got into a shouting match because, apparently, I'm grieving wrong, and I'm just not dealing with that shit so I came back here."

"If you're wanting to get away from yelling," Ororo said, "you came to the wrong place."

Scott looked back and forth between Kurt and Warren a few times. "They've gotten worse, haven't they?"

"Yes," Kurt agreed miserably then vanished with a louder  _pop_ than usual. 

Raven sighed. "Yeah. C'mon, let's get you your key and get your stuff back into your room."

"Thank you." Scott picked his duffle up and went up the stairs.

Warren ruffled his wings, crossed his arms, and huffed.

Ororo held her bag out toward him. "Cheese puff?"

"No," Warren snapped and stalked away.

"Well," Peter said, holding a palm out to Ororo, "no punches were thrown."

She rolled her eyes, dug a crumpled dollar out of her pocket, and slapped it in his hand.

"Thank you." He grinned.

 

The next dramatic fight found everyone other than Warren and Kurt standing under a skylight, craning their necks to stare up through it at the two boys shouting at each other on the roof.

"Did anyone have money on a fight of the roof?" Erik asked.

"Sadly, no," Peter said.

"We really should have seen this coming," Jubilee lamented. Ororo and Scott both nodded.

"This is getting out of hand," Hank said.

Charles sighed. "No one's been able to stop and them."

"As long as it's not physical," Raven shrugged, "I'm not too worried."

Jean made a face. "Warren is weirdly obsessed with Kurt and he thinks really loud."

Charles looked around at her. "Are you going to want some extra practice blocking people out?"

"Please," she whined.

"We can do that."

"Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German this chapter:
> 
> Warren: You burnt my wing, shithead!  
> Kurt: You got better! And I already apologized!  
> Warren: I don't give a fuck!
> 
> Kurt: Asshole.
> 
> Warren: Well that's not old-fashioned at all.
> 
> Kurt: Thanks.
> 
> Kurt: Why do you care that I only have three toes?!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When characters provide in-dialogue translation, I'm not giving hovertext or notes, it would be redundant.  
> I'm also probably going stop translating some words that come up frequently.

After Jean's lesson, Charles sat at his desk, going through paperwork for tax purposes. There was a knock at the half open door, Warren strode in without waiting for a response, and leaned on Charles's desk. "I have a very important question."

"Yes?" Charles set down his pen.

"When Americans say 'pants' they mean trousers, right?"

"Yes."

"Oh, thank god." Warren physically relaxed.

"Do I even want to know?" Charles asked cautiously, but with evident concern.

"Overheard Jubilee trying to convince Ororo to lend her a pair of pants."

Charles laughed. "Oh, dear. Yes, they definitely mean trousers."

"Americans are weird."

"This is your first time in the states, isn't it?" Charles smirked gently.

"Yes," Warren confirmed warily.

"Have you run into the chips conundrum yet?"

"The what?"

Charles folded his hands. "What we call chips, they call fries, and what  _they_ call chips, we call crisps."

Warren blinked at him slowly. "Are we sure they're still speaking English?"

"Most of the time." Charles grinned ruefully. "It's worse in California."

Warren shook his head and sighed.

"How are you settling in here?"

Warren shrugged and straightened up. "Alright, I guess."

"Even though you're constantly fighting with Kurt?" Charles asked skeptically.

"Hey, it's not my fault the kid seems to go out of his way to piss me off."

"I really don't think he's doing it on purpose."

"Whatever."

 

Down the hall, Peter crutched his way into Erik's office. " _Arsch_ is ass, right?"

Erik resisted the urge to sigh. He put down his book. "Yes."

"And  _scheiße_ is shit?"

"Yes." Erik sighed.

"What's zayen?"

"What?"

"Zayen."

"Sehen?"

"No."

"Zehen?"

"Yeah, that."

"Toes."

"Oh. Okay." Peter pulled his notepad out of his pocket. "Uh—"

"Have you been taking notes from those morons shouting at each other?"

"Maybe."

Erik held his hand out. "Lemme see. Come sit, get off your feet." Peter crutched over and handed his father the notepad. Erik took it as Peter dropped into the other chair at the desk. "You could just have me teach you German." He flipped through the notes. "Or, God, at least let me teach you German phonetics."

"Is it that bad?" Peter asked sheepishly.

Erik tapped a finger on the notes. "Is that supposed to say  _böse_ ?"

"Uh, I think so, yeah."

"There's no W in  _böse_ . It's an umlauted O."

"A what-ed O?"

"Umlauted." A pen flew into Erik's hand and he wrote  _böse_ next to Peter's misspelled attempt. "The dots are called an umlaut."

"Oh. So what's  _böse_ mean?"

"Bad. Sometimes evil or angry, depending on context."

"Good to know." Peter nodded. "Good to know."

They went through the rest of Peter's notes, Erik correcting his atrocious spelling along the way. When they were done, Erik dropped the notepad on his desk. "So...your mother's visiting?"

"Yeah, Mom's coming up this weekend with my sisters."

"About these sisters...?"

"Little sister, Helen, definitely not yours. She's in high school. Twin sister, Wanda, definitely is yours. She's almost finished with undergrad."

Erik nodded slowly. "Right."

"If you knew about us, would you have stayed?"

"I honestly don't know. I had no way to know about you, and around the time you were born I was sort of on the run."

"You and Raven and this whole being on the run when your kids are born thing, I swear," Peter tried to joke, but the humor fell flat. He shifted in his chair. "Sorry. That wasn't funny, was it?"

"Not really, no."

"Sorry." Peter ducked his head.

"It's okay."

"I'm not good at people." Peter scrubbed a hand through his hair.

Erik smirked a little. "It's hereditary."

Peter snorted and grinned.

 

~*~

 

Lena Maximoff and her daughters arrived at the Xavier Institute that Saturday afternoon in an old, red, covered bed pickup truck. Peter met them at the front door and was nearly knocked over by hugs. "Whoa, whoa, hey, love you too, but watch the crutches."

"Sorry." Wanda steadied him and ruffled his hair.

He rolled his eyes. "How were finals?"

She held up one hand and wiggled her fingers, emphasizing how horrendously chipped her black nail polish was. "I have been so busy I haven't been able to do my nails since you broke your leg. Mom moved me out on the way here. All my shit is in the truck."

"Wow," Peter chuckled. He reached out to fluff his little sister's hair. "What've you been up to, Hellen?"

She pushed his hand away and fixed her hair, but smiled. "Mostly listening to Wanda bitch about finals."

"She hasn't been complaining  _that_ much," their mother said. She brushed Peter's hair out of his face. "How about you? Driving everyone crazy moaning about your leg?"

"See, I think I would be, but I'm so much less irritating that the full on screaming matches that're happening four or five times a day, I barely register."

Lena's face fell. "Screaming matches?"

"Yeah." Peter sighed dramatically. "Couple East German underground cage fighters with a history. It's not pretty." He shared a smirk with his twin at their mother and sister's horror. "Anyway!" he said brightly, crutching around to go back inside, "I think a tour of the giant freaking mansion is in order!"

Wanda whooped excitedly, Hellen rolled her eyes, and Lena laughed softly to herself as they followed Peter in.

"Most peeps are home for the summer," Peter explained has he crutched his way across the entryway in the direction of the elevator, "so we're particularly island of lost toys right now."

"Complete with two East German underground cage fighters," Wanda said skeptically.

"Well," Peter hit the elevator button with the end of his crutch, "technically it's  _one_ cage fighter. The other guy just got into a cage fight one time."

"Oh, that changes everything," Hellen scoffed.

"How did he get into a cage fight?" Lena asked, concerned.

"I'm pretty sure he got kidnapped from the circus." The elevator dinged and opened. Peter tacked his way in and hit the second floor. "So as you can see we have three floors, a basement and a sub-basement. Freaky science stuff goes on down there. Not a whole lot happens on the third floor, it's mostly empty. First floor is classrooms, rec room, dining room, blahblahblah." The elevator dinged and disgorged them. Peter leaned on one crutch and made a sweeping gesture with the other. "Second floor! Down that way is faculty rooms, down this way is student rooms—including mine, never mind that I graduated high school already, whatever—and right here is faculty offices." He pushed open one of the heavy wooden doors, leading his family in after him. "Prof! Meet my womenfolk!"

Wanda cuffed the back of his head. Charles chuckled, set down his pen, and came around his desk. "I don't think your sister approves of your phrasing. Good to meet you all." He held out a hand to Peter's mother. "Lena Maximoff, I presume?"

"That's right." She shook his hand.

"Charles Xavier. I hope nothing your son's told you about me has been too terrible.”

Peter snorted. “The worst anybody can say about you is that you've got some weird crap on your bookshelves.”

Charles half nodded and chuckled. “I suppose I maintain the facade of respectability better than I thought. I'm joking of course. Mostly.”

Hellen was staring at him plainly, eyes wide. Lena nudged her. She looked around at her mother. “What?”

“ _Hellen_.”

“He looks so normal!” Hellen said with a sweeping gesture at the professor. “I was expecting way weirder from the guy who runs the mutant school.” She crossed her arms.

Charles laughed. “I think my sister might be more of what you had in mind.”

“I'm what who had in mind about what?” Raven asked, sticking her head in through the open door. Her hair was blond and wavy, she had freckles today, and a can of Pringles.

“Hi, Raven,” Peter said.

“Hey.” Raven stepped in and held the cardboard tube out. “Anybody want a Pringle? I Confiscated them from Warren for noisy sulking.”

“She looks just as normal,” Hellen said, sounding betrayed.

“Raven, these are Peter's mother and sisters,” Charles explained.

“Hi,” Raven said.

“Hellen here was expecting I'd look a little stranger.”

Raven arched an eyebrow. “Like this?” she asked, turning blue, all her clothes except for her jacket vanishing.

Hellen gaped. Lena blinked. Wanda cocked her head to the side. Peter nodded, “Yeah, like that.”

“Something like that,” Hellen said slowly.

Raven snickered. Charles smiled patiently. “It's fascinating, really, how diversely the X gene can manifest,” he said placidly. “In some people, you couldn't possibly miss it, in others, you'd never know without being told.”

Raven and Peter both rolled their eyes at the professor's characteristic editorialism. Peter's family, though, all nodded in agreement.

Peter continued showing his family around the mansion-come-school, which they got through without incident—they managed to not stumble upon one of Kurt and Warren's showdowns, and Erik managed to avoid them, which at least put off all the awkward he was liable to bring with him. When they were done, the entire Maximoff clan wound up on the floor of the rec room, Hellen digging through Wanda's box of nail polish while Wanda removed the chipped remnants left on her nails.

“This seems like a nice place,” Lena noted.

“It is,” Peter said.

The door to outside banged open, making the cabinet of sports equipment next to the door rattle. A can of tennis balls fell over as Warren stalked in, shirtless, wings held half open, making him look bigger than he was. “You're still an _arschloch_! ” he spat behind him then slammed the door closed again.

With a pop, Kurt appeared in front of him. “ _Why_ are we having this argument _again_?” Kurt demanded. “This has to be this sixth time, at least! I've apologized! And you got better! Why do you keep bringing this up?!”

“Because fuck you,” Warren snarled.

“Guys!” Peter interrupted. “Can you maybe _not_ , just for a minute?” He gestured at his family. “I've got my mom and my sisters here, would it kill you to behave yourselves?”

“We can behave,” Kurt said defiantly while Warren scoffed. He plopped on the couch, ignoring Warren sticking his tongue out at him. He noticed Hellen staring at him. “Yes, hello. You're Peter's sister?”

Hellen nodded. She looked to her brother. “Is he the German cage fighter?”

“ _I'm_ the German cage fighter,” Warren corrected haughtily.

“This is Kurt,” Peter said. “He's the one who got into a cage fight one time.”

Wanda frowned and chucked a blackened cotton ball at the trashcan without looking. It was a perfect shot. “Why's the German cage fighter British?”

“I emigrated.” Warren crossed his arms.

Hellen reached out to poke Kurt's fingernail. Kurt blinked at her. “Yes?”

“Your fingernails are so big.” She looked up at him intensely. “Can I paint them?”

“I mean,” Kurt shrugged, “if you want to.”

“ _Yes_!” Hellen crowed. “I have room to do fancy shit.” She grabbed a bottle of black nail polish from the box.

Lena shook her head, amused. Warren scoffed. Wanda chucked another cotton ball directly in the trash without looking. “Does the cage fighter want his nails done, too?”

“No.” Warren huffed and stalked out of the room.

Wanda watched him go. “What's his problem?”

“I have no idea,” Kurt sighed while Hellen lacquered his nails in black.

“Far as I can tell, he's just a jerk,” Peter said.

“Oh, Peter,” Wanda said, suddenly digging through her box. “Look what I found.” She held up a bottle of metallic red polish with an oddly fat cap. She popped open a compartment in the lid and dumped three odd little coins into her palm. They were black on one side, and each had a different wave-like pattern stamped onto the other side. “It's new and expensive which is why I only got one, but it's magnetic. The polish is magnetic. The tokens have different fields or something so they make the polish line up differently and it makes patterns. Somebody put physics in nail polish and I love it.”

“Dude.” Peter grabbed the bottle from his sister's hand on an impulse to fast to see. She didn't flinch. He held the bottle up to examine it, gave it back to her, then cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled toward the rest of the house, “Ay, yo, dad!”

Beside him, Lena gripped her own ankle. Wanda arched an eyebrow at him. Kurt's tail flicked the couch cushions. Hellen was biting her lip in concentration as she carefully did not get nail polish on Kurt's skin—she didn't seem to register anything happening around her. A moment passed. Then Erik appeared at the end of the hallway in view of the open door. “Do you mean me?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, yeah,” Peter called down the hall to him; he shrugged. “I'm pretty sure you're the only guy here who's ever actually procreated. Come here and look at a thing.”

Erik hesitated. He glanced around the corner behind him, rolled his eyes, then came down the hall to the rec room. He looked at no one but Peter. “What is it?”

Peter pointed at the bottle in his sister's hand. “Magnetic nail polish. This is my twin sister, Wanda, by the way. This is my other sister, Hellen—not yours. And obviously you've met my mother.”

“Hello, Erik,” Lena said politely.

Down at the end of the hall, Charles rolled past from the direction Erik had glanced. Wanda's gaze flicked between her mother and her estranged father. Erik nodded once. “Hello.”

Hellen actually looked up. She had switched to Kurt's other hand.

Erik cleared his his throat. The red nail polish flew into his hand. He turned it over. “What's the point?”

“It makes patterns,” Wanda said. She held out her palmful of tokens. They flew from her hand to Erik's.

“That's so cool,” Hellen whispered, eyeing Erik.

He lowered himself into a chair across from the couch, next to the TV, and examined it. Inside the tiny glass bottle, the red-on-red swirled.

“So,” Peter said, “you can manipulate that stuff?”

Erik nodded. “Anything metallic.”

“You wanna do your daughter's nails?”

“Peter,” Lena said, voice low and cautionary.

“What?”

“It's fine,” Erik muttered quickly.

Wanda leaned back against the TV stand. “Well, it'd be faster if you did the mutant metal magic thing than if I sit here brushing it on by hand, and I'm never going to object to speeding up the process,” she shot her brother a brief look, then turned back to Erik, “so if you don't mind, be my guest.” She held out her hands, palms down, nails up.

Erik shrugged and uncapped the bottle. He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, studying her hands from his seat, then ten tiny droplets of what looked creepily like blood floated from the bottle and flattened themselves neatly across her fingernails, the two tones of red settling into fractal patterns.

“ _Das ist_ ,” Kurt began, then shook his head, “wow.”

Hellen firmly capped the bottle of black, done with Kurt's nails, and held out her own. “Me next.”

The barest hist of a smile tugged the corner of Erik's mouth up and he repeated the action for Hellen. She grinned broadly. “You have the bombest super powers I've ever seen.”

“They're not really supe—” Erik began, but Peter cut him off.

“They're totally superpowers.”

“What is 'bombest?'” Kurt asked.

Hellen took a breath, but Wanda pre-empted her, “Superlative form of bomb, meaning cool, great, or awesome.”

“Ah.” Kurt nodded. “Alright.”

“Remind me to teach you more English slang,” Peter said to Kurt.

While the kids chatted, Lena fiddled with the hem of her shirt then looked up at Erik. “So, I hear you were involved in the world saving.”

“I was,” Erik confirmed, then stood up. “I have things I need to do. In my office.”

“I'll walk with you.” Lena got up off the floor.

Erik hesitated, then nodded once. As they walked down the hall, they heard Hellen say softly behind them, “That's so awkward. I kinda feel bad for him.”

“Don't,” Peter said without malice. “He's an asshole.”

“It's genetic, then?” Wanda asked teasingly.

“Yes, and you're exhibit A.”

“That still makes you exhibit B,” Kurt pointed out.

“Oh, shut up,” Peter grumbled.

“Are you voluntarily painting your own nails?” Hellen asked incredulously.

“I'm bored,” Peter said flatly.

Erik shoved his hands in his pockets. Lena crossed her arms. “I saw you on the news.”

Erik nodded shortly. “I've been on the news a few times.”

“I'm surprised you're not in prison.”

“So am I.”

“How aren't you in prison?” she pressed.

“No idea. I suspect Charles meddled in things, but I'm not going to ask.”

“Did he—Does he—” She wiggled her fingers at forehead level.

He shrugged. “I don't think so, he's developed a strict moral code against abuse of ability, but it's either that or he's blackmailing someone.”

Her forehead scrunched. “Blackmailing about what?”

He glanced over at her. “Peter didn't tell you.”

“Didn't tell me what?” She stopped walking.

“Well, the government sort of tranqed most of the school….”

“They did _what_?”

“Don't worry,” Erik started up the stairs, “the posh British cripple has chewed out every official he could get on the phone already.”

Lena hurried after him. “What hap—?”

“Who's Hellen's father?” Erik asked quickly.

“None of your business,” Lena said sharply.

“That's fine. Just curious.”

She caught his arm at the top of the stairs. “Look at me.”

He did.

“If you screw up my kids, I will kill you,” she said firmly, looking him directly and unflinchingly in the eye.

He considered his next words. “I believe you. But I didn't seek Peter out, I don't have any designs on him, and I honestly haven't got the first fucking clue why he wants anything to do with me.”

She sighed, shook her head, and crossed her arms. “He needs someone—a man—he can look up to and relate to. He was never close to my husband—Hellen's father—so he's made it to his twenties without ever having a real father figure in his life.” She sighed again and looked up at the ceiling. “Between that and how bad he is with people it's really no wonder he's been living in my basement….”

“At least he's here now?” Erik hedged.

“He's living in a high school,” she said flatly.

“It's not your basement.”

“That's true.” She eyed him. “Do you actually have something to do in your office or were you just trying to escape like I suspect you were?”

“I actually have tax paperwork to do.”

“Huh.” She followed him the rest of the way to his office. Once there, she looked around. “Pretty bare in here.”

“Haven't been here long.” He clicked a pen. “Didn't have a chance to bring much of anything with me, either.”

“Where were you living?”

“Poland.” He frowned at the page in front of him and ticked a box. “Did you ever finish college?”

“Yes. And I got my master's.” She picked up a book and flipped through it. “No thanks to you.”

“I didn't get you pregnant on purpose and I didn't make you keep them,” he said matter of factly, putting his tax form down. “You came on to me, we went back to your hotel, you ordered us drinks, and you told me—I believe your exact words were, 'forget the fucking condom it'll be fine.' You were studying abroad, I was transient, there was an understanding that this,” he gestured between them, “was _nothing_. An easy fuck, that's it. You don't get to blame me. I'll take shit from Peter, he had no choice in being a part of this situation. Wanda, too, if it seemed like she cared. But not you. You are at _least_ as responsible as I am.”

“I didn't meant it like that.” She held the book to her chest. “I'm sorry. I don't always think before I say things. Peter had to get it from somewhere, right?”

“Right.”

“How's Poland? I've never been,” she asked casually.

“Full of violent, prejudiced cowards,” he said tightly, touching the locket he wore under his shirt through the fabric. “They killed my wife and daughter.”

Lena looked as though she'd been struck. “I am so sorry, Erik.”

He shrugged one shoulder and went back to his tax form.

She carefully put the book back and took a step toward his desk. “My husband...he was killed a few years ago. I—I'm very sorry for your loss. I had no idea.”

He nodded and mumbled, “Thank you.”

She chewed her lip a long moment, “Well, I guess I'll let you work….”

“Right.”

“Right.” She nodded, left, and closed the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German this chapter:  
> Erik (trying to interpret Peter's mispronunciation): Seeing?
> 
> Warren: Asshole!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to be putting translations in the A/Ns anymore; I've realized they're really rather hard to follow.  
> You can still hover your mouse for translations!
> 
> Edit 01/2018: I'm going back and putting end note translations on chapters I left them out and will be continuing to do them in future because apparently the hover text doesn't work on mobile.

By the time Lena had made a lap of the second floor to gather herself and came back to the rec room, her daughters' nails were dry, Hellen was studiously re-creating the natural swirl patterns of Kurt's skin onto his fingernails in blue glitter while his freshly black toes dried, and Peter was gaping at Wanda as she finished up telling a story.

“All on the same day?” Peter asked.

Wanda nodded. “All on the same day.”

“Holy shit, what are the odds?”

Wanda shrugged and laughed.

“Girls,” Lena said, “we should probably get headed home soon.”

“Lemme finish this,” Hellen said without looking up.

Wanda looked over at her brother, studied him, chewed her lip, then looked up at her mother. “What if I stayed here with Peter over the summer?”

Lena blinked. “I don't think you'd be allowed to.”

“We can ask the professor,” Peter suggested, laying his hand over his twin's.

“I don't think he'd mind,” Kurt said.

“Alright,” Lena said. “Let's ask.”

One conversation with the professor later, the entire school—minus Erik—was helping shlep Wanda's things from the truck to an empty room next to Peter's. Kurt was setting down a box labeled “books” when Warren came in with a laundry basket full of clean clothes. Kurt yelped. Warren glared at him. “What's your problem?”

“You stepped on my tail!”

“No I didn't.” Warren dropped the basket and crossed his arms. “You probably stepped on it yourself.”

“I'm barefoot! You're wearing boots. I can tell the difference.” Kurt cradled the end of his tail in his hands.

“You're such a wimp,” Warren sneered.

“Okay, out!” Peter commanded. “You two are not having a row in my sister's room. And, shit, I've been listening to the Brits talk too much.”

Warren snorted and gave Kurt a shove out into the hallway.

“ _Tast mich nicht_ ,” Kurt snapped, returning the shove.

“ _Was? Wie das_? ” Warren asked, shoving Kurt again, harder.

Kurt stumbled. He bristled.

Jean stepped into the hallway, staring them down, arms crossed. “Get out of here with your bullshit.”

Warren started to scoff but Kurt grabbed his wrist and the next moment they were on the roof at the opposite end of the school. Warren yanked his arm away. “What'd you do that for?!”

“ _I_ don't particularly want to find out if she'll actually kill us,” Kurt said, palm to his chest to emphasize himself.

Warren eyed him. “I can't believe you let that little bitch paint your nails.”

“Hellen is a very nice girl, and you didn't even talk to her, you don't get to call her that.”

“I'll call a bitch a bitch if I want to.”

“Why are you like this?” Kurt asked, stepping toward Warren. “Why are you so mean to everyone? _Warum bist du doch hier? Du hasst jeder_! ”

“I do not!” Warren stepped closer in defiance.

“You behave like it!”

“Shut up.” Warren shoved Kurt's shoulders.

“I told you not to touch me!” Kurt shoved him back.

“You don't want me to touch you?” Warren asked mockingly, poking Kurt in the chest.

Kurt swatted his hand away. “No, I don't.”

“Too fucking bad,” Warren growled. He grabbed Kurt with both hands by the jaw and the back of his head, and kissed him roughly.

For a moment, Kurt was frozen—then he shoved away from Warren and stared at him, eyes wide. “ _ **Was**_ _?_ ”

Warren shrugged and reached for Kurt again but Kurt stepped just out of reach.

“ _Was machst du?_ _”_

“ _Dich küssen. ”_

“ _Warum? ”_

“ _Keine Ahnung_ ,” Warren closed the gap between them and kissed him again. Kurt grabbed his upper arms, thumbs digging into the muscle, and it seemed like he was about to push Warren off—possibly off the roof entirely, given how close they were to the edge—but then he didn't. He kissed him back.

He straightened out of his usual crouch and pulled Warren bodily to him, forcing the winged boy to lean up in order to keep kissing him. His tail wound around Warren's leg. Warren broke away and looked down at it. “That's different.” He looked up at Kurt. “How fucking tall are you?”

“Six foot two,” Kurt breathed.

“Since when?” Warren demanded.

“Uh, since about eight months ago.”

“I thought you were shorter.”

Kurt shrugged. Warren grabbed his face, resumed snogging him, then shifted his grip to fist his fingers in the front of Kurt's shirt. Kurt ran his hands over the bare muscles of Warren's chest—he had no idea why Warren wasn't wearing a shirt today, but he wasn't about to question his fashion choices. Then Warren was kissing at Kurt's throat. Kurt wrapped his arms around the older boy's back and ran a hand up under the shield of feathers to run his fingers over the complex arrangement of musculature and bone going on below his shoulder blades.

Warren shivered and ruffled his wings. He nipped Kurt's neck sharply, one hand finding its way up under his shirt.

Kurt cuffed Warren's head. “If I bit you like that you would bleed.”

“Try it,” Warren chuckled. “I dare you.”

“No.” Kurt kissed him again. Warren nipped at his lower lip, a challenge Kurt refused to take. Kurt loosened his tail from around Warren's leg—Warren reached for it so it slipped through his fingers, then he grabbed Kurt by the belt and started unfastening it. “Stop that,” Kurt said. Warren didn't. Kurt grabbed his hands. “I said stop.”

“C'mon,” Warren said, pulling his hands from Kurt's grasp.

“If you don't stop I will throw you off this roof.”

Warren snorted. “What good'll that do? I can fly, _dumkopf_.”

“Then why haven't you since you've been here?”

Warren took a step back. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Whatever happened to you,” Kurt wiped his mouth, “that you've lost the metal feathers, you're still healing aren't you?”

“I'm fine,” Warren snapped.

“Also, your nose twitches when you lie.”

“Shut up.” Warren huffed. “Can we go back to snogging? It's fun.”

Kurt tilted his head. “Go back to what?”

“Snogging,” Warren said exaggeratedly. “ _Ach, wie sagt man…?_ _K_ _nutschen. K_ _ö_ _nnen wir_?  ”

“ _Nein_!” Kurt fixed his belt. “We need to talk about this.”

“Can we not? Ever?”

“Sure,” Kurt said facetiously. “We just won't ever do it again, then.”

“But it was good!”

“Yes, which is why it would be a shame if we never did it again but I'm not doing it unless we talk about it.” Kurt crossed his arms.

“Fuck you.”

“No, thank you.”

Warren huffed and stomped off toward the roof access stairs.

“I hope your wings heal up,” Kurt called after him. Warren slammed the door closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German this chapter:  
> Kurt: Don't touch me!  
> Warren: What? Like that?
> 
> Kurt: Why are you even here? You hate everyone!
> 
> Kurt: What?  
> Kurt: What are you doing?  
> Warren: Kissing you.  
> Kurt: Why?  
> Warren: No clue.
> 
> Warren: Oh, how do you say...? Making out. Can we?


	8. Chapter 8

Raven was lounging in her desk chair in her office, tipped back, feet up on her desk, running her fingers through her hair—which was currently long and black, just because she could—while she read over the curriculum requirements for the state of New York. There was a pop to her left and she looked up to see Kurt, his shirt rumpled, tail flicking, cheeks flushed purple. “I need a parent.”

“Uh.” Raven let her chair drop back to all four legs. “Erik might be a better bet for that.”

“I am not talking to him about this.” Kurt huffed and started pacing. “Boys are stupid. _Ich hasse—Er ist so, ach, ich weiß doch nicht. Und ich hab' keine Ahnung gehabt, dass er Männer mag. Ich—_ ”

“Okay, whoa.” Raven held up a hand. “Either slow down and enunciate or switch to English.”

“Sorry.” Kurt took a deep breath.

“At a guess, we're talking about Warren?”

“Ja.”

“What did he do now?”

“He kissed me!”

“Oh shit. Do I need to kill him?”

“No! Please do not murder on my behalf.” He crossed himself quickly.

“Okay, I won't kill him.” She dropped the book of curriculum requirements on her desk. “So, what then?”

“I don't know!”

“Oh, jeez.” She ran a hand over her face. “Are you gay?”

“No.”

“Well, then—”

“But I do like boys,” he admitted quickly.

“Oh. Okay. Um.” She got up. “So do you like him?”

“He's an asshole.”

“Oh, believe me, I've noticed. That's not what I asked though.”

Kurt shrugged and scratched his ankle with his tail. “He is not unatractive.”

“Taking that as a yes, do you want it to happen again?”

“Only if he will have an actual conversation with me.”

She shrugged. “So talk to him.”

He sighed. “It's not that easy. I have tried. I have tried so hard. He just yells.”

“Yeah…that's true….” She shook her head. “I don't know. You can always try something sappy like plying him with chocolate.”

“I don't think so.”

She took a deep breath. “In that case: pray.”

“I need to go buy candles….”

 

Kurt leaned down the dorm hallway where the summer boarders were still lingering. “I'm gong to the store if anyone wants to come with me.”

“What happened with you and Angel?” Peter asked from the floor.

Kurt flushed. “Nothing.”

Jean looked at him curiously, then started cackling. “Finally!”

“Hey! You stay out—wait, what do you mean _finally_?” Kurt crossed his arms.

She grinned and said nothing. Wanda leaned out of her new room, tying her hair up as she spoke. “I wouldn't mind going. I don't know the area, so it'd be good to see.”

“Oh, I wasn't going to drive,” Kurt explained apologetically. “I can't, especially not in this country. I just,” he gestured, “poof.”

Wanda shrugged. “Fine by me.”

“Get me out of the house,” Peter pleaded. His mother and other sister had left already.

“Anyone else?” Kurt asked. Jubilee, Ororo, and Scott looked at each other and shook their heads. “Alright then.” He took each twin by the arm and poofed them—and Peter's crutches—to just outside the nearest dollar store.

Wanda nearly fell over, but didn't. Peter had to put out a crutch to steady himself. A little old lady in a pink floral dress gave the three of them a very strange look. Kurt dusted his hands together and steadfastly ignored the old lady in the pink dress. “He we are.”

“How far did we just go?” Wanda asked as they went into the store.

“Uh,” Kurt shrugged, “a few miles.”

“And what do you need from here?” Peter asked, crutching along.

“Prayer candles.”

“Those come from the dollar store?” both twins asked.

“Mhm. Sometimes the grocery store but it costs less here.” He led them down the candle aisle—near one end there were a few cardboard display boxes of tall thin candles in glass jars, each emblazoned with a colorful portrait of some saint, the Virgin Mary, or Jesus.

Peter picked up a candle from a different shelf and smelled it, leaning on one crutch. “What do you need to pray for?”

“Nothing.” Kurt hunted through the candles, seeing what saints were available.

“Same nothing that was going on with you and Angel?” Wanda asked.

“His name is Warren.” He picked up a candle with a portrait of a man in a green shawl. A label across the bottom read _St. Jude_.

Peter tilted his head. “Like the hospital?”

“He's the patron saint of lost causes,” Kurt explained.

Wanda arched an eyebrow at her brother, who shrugged. A little girl wandered into the aisle, fiddling with the glass jars and chochkies stocked with the candles. Her eyes passed over Kurt's bare feet, then her gaze lifted slowly to his face. She gaped, mouth open, eyes wide in her small face. Kurt waved at her, smiling without showing his teeth. She pointed at him. “You're blue!”

“Yes, I am,” Kurt said.

“That's so cool!” the little girl crowed then ran off, presumably to her mother.

Wanda was eyeing Kurt. He shrugged. “That happens.”

He took his candle up to the cashier, paid his dollar plus tax, then poofed them back to the school. Without a word to each other, Peter and Wanda headed into his room as though they'd agreed on it. Peter looked back at Kurt. “You wanna hang out with us?”

“Thank you, but,” he shrugged, tapped a nail against the glass of his candle, and gestured toward his own room with his tail, “I think I'm just going to….”

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter nodded. “Good luck with that.”

“Thank you.” Kurt sighed. “I need it.”

 

Erik was in his office, at his desk, hunched over the tax forms he needed to fill out, flexing and unflexing his fingers, collapsing a tangle of paper clips into a compact ball of wire, then unraveling it, over and over. A knock at the door startled him and the paper clip ball fell with a clunk onto the desk top. Erik took a breath. “It's unlocked.”

The doorknob rattled, then Charles's voice said, “No, it's not, Erik.”

Erik looked up at the door, the bolt slid open, then the door swung open on its hinges to reveal Charles. “Hadn't realized I'd done that,” Erik said. “Sorry.”

Charles eyed him warily as he came into the office. “Are you alright?”

Erik took a breath and let it out. “I'm fine.” He capped the pen he'd been using. “There's just a lot on my mind.”

“Because of Lena,” Charles said. It wasn't a question but his tone was gentle.

Erik rolled his neck to crack it. “Among other things.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Well,” Charles said carefully, “if you change you mind, come find me. I'm here whenever you need.”

“I'm fine, Charles.”

Charles gave him a look that made it clear he didn't believe him, but he didn't press the matter. “I think Rosalinda is making fajitas for dinner.”

“What kind?”

“Chicken.”

“Sounds good.” Erik held up the tax form. “Do I really have to fill this out?”

“If you want to get paid anything, yes.”

“Fine,” Erik huffed. He uncapped his pen again and made a vague shooing motion as he went back to his paperwork.

He was about three quarters of the way through everything he had to fill out when there was another knock and the door opened without waiting for a response. Rosalinda—dark haired and curvy, dressed in bright pink with big star shaped earrings—strode in and set a plate in front of him, grilled meat and onions and bell peppers with a roll of tortillias and a precariously balanced fork. “Mr. Xavier was 'bout to come drag you downstairs himself,” she said in her strong Bronx accent, “but I figured that'd turn into some kinda fight and then the both a ya would miss your dinner. You want anything to drink you gotta get it yourself.”

She turned to go. He mumbled a, “Thank you,” to her back.

She left the door open. He picked at his food as he continued to slog through his paper work. His office darkened as the sun set. He flicked the lamp on without reaching for it. It was strange to be able to use his abilities casually, without having to think who might see, what they might do. Strange, but not bad.

He turned to the last page, filled it out, capped his pen, shut off the lamp, and headed to his room. He didn't bother to turn on the light, letting his eyes adjust to the dim instead. He brushed his teeth, used the bathroom, changed from his shirt and jeans into a pair of soft cotton pants, and fell into bed. He felt like he had only just closed his eyes when he sat up, tortured to wakefulness by dark dreams cobbled together like Frankenstein's monster from scraps of memory and what-might-have-beens. He ran a hand over his face and through his hair as he tried to school his breathing. The restless ghosts of his mind lurked in the shadowed corners of the bedroom. He threw off the covers and got out of bed.

Charles's room was the master suite at the end of the hall. Erik hesitated, his hand on the doorknob. Charles had said whenever. And the door was unlocked. He pushed it open. “Charles?”

He was asleep, nestled in a pile of pillows, the collar of his pajama shirt flipped up on one side, his face peaceful.

“Charles?” Erik said again.

Charles's forehead crinkled, he opened one eye, then the other. “Erik?” he asked sleepily and pushed himself up on one elbow. “What is it?”

“I—Can we talk?” Erik asked, voice hoarse.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Charles said. He shifted and moved some of his pillows so he could sit up properly. “What time is it?”

“I don't know,” Erik admitted. He nudged the door closed behind him, went to Charles's bedside, hesitated, then sat on the edge of the mattress. “I'm not sure what time it was when I went to bed and I have no idea how long I was asleep.”

“That's what clocks are for, Erik,” Charles said, reaching for the timepiece on his nightstand. “Nightmares wake you up?” he asked softly.

Erik nodded. Charles set down the clock and rubbed Erik's bare shoulder. Erik ran his hands over his face and through his hair. He took a breath and muttered, “I hate people.”

“I know.” Charles rubbed his back. “You've got better reason than most.”

“It's worse when I'm alone,” Erik mumbled into his hands.

Charles hugged him despite the awkward angle, arms around his chest, cheek against the back of his shoulder. “You're not alone, Erik.”

He huffed softly. “That's not what I meant.”

“I know,” Charles murmured against the skin of his shoulder. “You don't really want to talk, do you?”

“Not really, no.”

Charles released Erik from his embrace and set about rearranging his pillows. “Lay down.”

“I don't—”

“It's almost two in the morning. If you go back to your room, you'll stare at the ceiling without letting yourself sleep in case you start dreaming again,” Charles said matter of factly. “Stay here with me and sleep.”

Erik twisted to look at Charles. He'd drawn the covers back for Erik—his pajama bottoms matched his shirt, the posh asshole, and he had a pillow tucked between his knees. He was looking at Erik expectantly. Erik glanced back at the door, then lay down next to Charles and let him pull the blankets up over them both. With Charles reassuringly warm and real beside him, he fell back asleep. If he dreamed, he didn't remember it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German this chapter:  
> Kurt: I hate--He's so, uhg, I don't even know. And I had no idea he likes men. I--


	9. Chapter 9

After breakfast, Kurt found himself standing next to Ororo, watching in bemusement as Wanda, Jean, Jubilee, Scott, and—to the extent that he could on crutches—Peter, dance around to ABBA's greatest hits.

“Is this an American thing?” Ororo asked him.

He shrugged. “ABBA is Swedish.”

She shook her head. “White people,” she said forlornly.

“Straight white people,” he corrected.

She glanced over at him and said decisively, “Straight people.”

He nodded. Wanda, Jean, and Jubilee giggled all over each other as the music changed from an upbeat dance number to something slower and more soulful. Someone grabbed the end of his tail and tugged hard. He turned to glare at Warren. “That is attached to my body, you know.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Warren huffed. “ _Du willst reden, lass uns reden. Irgendwo anders._ ”

Kurt blinked at him, silently sent a prayer of thanks to St. Jude, and nodded. Warren grabbed him by the arm and hauled him off toward the stairs.

“This can't be good,” Scott noted behind them.

“They'll be fine,” Jean said and turned the volume knob up from across the room.

Kurt poofed himself and Warren to the roof for expediency's sake, then pulled his arm out of the ex-pat's grasp. “So.”

Warren huffed, crossed his arms over his tanktop, ruffled his wings, and glanced away. “I wanna do you, okay?”

“You made that clear already, yes,” Kurt said, trying to ignore the flush he could feel creeping into his cheeks.

“So, are you going to let me or not?”

“No,” Kurt said firmly. “At least not—I do not just hook up with people, or whatever. And you always yell and are angry and mean for no reason, especially to me. I—I will admit that you are attractive, but you're an asshole, so I really don't think I want to date you, and I absolutely will not _do_ someone whom I'm not even dating. So, no.”

Warren scoffed. “Dating? You're joking, right?”

“I am not joking at all.”

Warren snorted. “I don't date. And if you've got a problem with my attitude, that's tough, I'm just like this. Get over it. I'm not gonna change just because you've got a hard on.”

Kurt bared his teeth. “You're the one who kissed me, and you're the one who's wanting to have sex. I've only told you what would have to happen for you to get what you want.”

“So, if I date you I can fuck you?” Warren asked flatly.

“It's not that simple,” Kurt snapped. He crossed his arms. “But if we're not dating then we're definitely not—not doing _that_.”

Warren rolled his eyes. “Jeez, you can't even bring yourself to use fuck as a verb, can you? This is hopeless.”

“I was taught not to be, uh, _wie sagt man 'grob' auf Englisch_? ”

Warren shrugged. “Crude, I guess. Crass. Whatever.” He glared off over the edge of the roof, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his wings.

“You know, they look okay, so you must mostly be healed, right?”

“Like you care,” Warren muttered.

“I do care.” Kurt ran his tail between his own fingers. “I don't hate you, I just wish you weren't so _sehr immer b_ _ö_ _se_. ”

Warren eyed him calculatingly. “ _Willst du mich dein_ _en_ _Freund zu sein_? ”

“ _Freund, der ein_ _Jung' ist,_ _oder_ _ **Freund**_? ”

“Either.”

Kurt shrugged and picked at a roof tile with his toe. “I would rather be your friend than not. It would make life easier.”

“And?” Warren prompted.

Kurt's tail flicked. “I would not be opposed to you being my boyfriend. But if we were dating, I wouldn't be obligated to have sex with you,” Kurt added quickly. “It's not a guarantee. It just, makes it a possibility.”

“Then what the hell's the point?” Warren asked irritably.

“It's not all about sex, Warren.”

“Yeah, well, that's the only part I care about.”

“If that were true, you wouldn't still be talking to me.”

“I don't know why I _am_ still talking to you!” He started to huff off, looked around, then snapped, “Did you pick a part of the roof without stairs on purpose, smurfface?”

Kurt blinked. “I hadn't thought about it. Also, _**was**_ _hast du mich gehei_ _ß_ _t_? ”

“Fucking hell.” Ignoring Kurt's question, Warren stomped over to the gutter and kicked a pinecone off the edge. He ruffled his wings and eyed the ground warily.

“Please don't jump if you aren't sure your wings will hold you,” Kurt said softly.

“Why not? I've done it before. Only way to figure out for sure you can fly is to jump off of shit and hope you don't hit the ground too hard. Besides,” he snorted, “I survived a plane crash.”

“I did not mean to crash a plane on you!” Kurt threw his hands up. “And you were trying to kill me! Honestly, considering that, I don't know why I'm still talking to you either.”

Warren smirked at him. “Because I'm hot and whether you'll admit it or not you wanna ride this.”

“ _Ach, halt die Klappe!_ ” Kurt snapped.

“You're only pissed because I'm right.”

“Look, just don't jump off the damn roof, okay?” Kurt huffed.

Warren took a step back from the gutter. “You're such a sap.”

“I don't think not wanting to scrape you off the landscaping makes me a sap,” Kurt objected.

“No, you don't want to scrape me off the grass _because_ you're a sap,” Warren said stepping toward him. Kurt huffed again, tail swishing. Warren stuck out a foot to catch Kurt's tail mid-swish. Kurt whipped Warren's ankle with his tail, prompting him to hastily withdraw his foot. “Ow, shit,” Warren cursed. He pulled up his trouserleg to examine the pink welt about his anklebone. “What was that for?” he snapped.

“I did not tell you that you could touch me,” Kurt sniffed.

“Oh, come _on_.”

“Would you like it if someone walked up and grabbed your wings without permission?” Kurt asked, eyebrows raised behind the fringe of his hair.

Warren grimaced. “Yeah, no, I don't. Yes, it's happened.”

“Exactly.” Kurt crossed his arms. “My tail is a part of my body, you touch it, you're touching me.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever.” Warren rolled his eyes. “You like when I touch you, though.”

“I do not like you disrespecting my,” he flapped an arm, “personal bubble.”

Warren laughed. “Yeah, right.” He stepped closer to Kurt, right in front of him, so they were just barely not touching. Kurt sucked in a sharp breath. Warren smirked. “You like it.”

Kurt snorted angrily, and with a poof, he was gone. Warren blinked at the suddenly empty space in front of him, then yelled at it, “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

 

~*~

 

Wanda had her head on her brother's thigh—the one that was not incased in plaster—her eyes closed while he played with her hair. “So,” she said, “you found dad.”

“Yup.”

“How's that going for you?”

He shrugged. “Honestly, there's so much weird shit here it's kinda just one more thing.”

“Yesterday was awkward.”

“Yeah, well, he fucked our mom and they hadn't talked since. What d'you expect?”

She reached up to cuff his ear.

“Hey!”

“Can you _not_ put it like that?”

“That's what happened!”

“Oh my god, Peter.” She ran a hand over her face.

He flopped back on his mattress. “It's weird to think about but it is what it is. Dude's got issues but he's not a _bad guy_ , y'know?”

Wanda made a skeptical sound. “Didn't he try to kill the president?”

“You know, I haven't asked about that, and I don't plan to, but the professor trusts him, and that guy reads minds so, there's that.”

“There is that,” Wanda agreed. She sat up and scritched her red metallic nails through her brother's silvery hair. “Hows it like, being with other mutants all the time?”

Peter snorted. “No different. It's not like anybody here is any less slow than anyone anywhere else. Drives me just as crazy.”

“It's gotta be at least a slightly different environment, though.”

He shrugged. “I get less weird looks 'cause freaky shit is the norm here, I guess.”

“Exactly.” She booped his nose.

He sighed. “It's not as scary.”

She tilted her head. “How do you mean?”

“Like, out there,” he gestured at the window, “in the world, people suck. There's no telling who in a crowd might decide that they don't want a mutant around them, or their kid, or whatever, and decide to do something about it.”

“Nothing like that's ever happened to you, has it?” Wanda was frowning intensely.

“Not really, no. Closest it's come was some psycho southern bitch yelling at me not to touch her daughter—who I'd caught from falling off a jungle gym, kept her from cracking her skull open. You were off at school when that happened. I mean, if most anybody did try some bullshit with me I'd just get out of there. That said, I'd be seriously anxious living just about anywhere other than here right now.” He rapped his knuckles against his cast. “But no one here takes shit. Professor Xavier is fucking terrifying when he's pissed—mom voice terrifying. Raven is pretty much the queen of 'fuck you, fight me.' I mean, I don't really know about Hank, I don't talk to him really, he's always in the basement doing science, but our father—he does not take kindly to discrimination. At all. The other day, Warren—cage fighter with wings—was giving Kurt shit for praying at the table and he was just like, yeah don't do that, and he rolled up his sleeve real deliberately so Warren could see his number tattoo. If Warren had said another goddamn work I think he'd've decked the dumbass.”

“Number tattoo?”

“Wanda,” Peter said quietly, “he's a holocaust survivor.”

She blinked and put a hand over her mouth. “Oh. Oh my god….”

“He talks about it, too. Not, like, a lot. But some. Mostly either to get people to check themselves or really dark jokes. I think it's a case of if you don't laugh at it you'll go insane.”

She nodded. “That is a valid coping mechanism,” she said carefully. She shook her head. “He's not that old, he must have been a little kid.”

Peter nodded. “Yeah.”

“Jeeze, no wonder he's got issues.” She dug her hands through her hair.

He let out a breath. “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German this chapter:  
> Warren: You wanna talk, let's talk. Somewhere else.
> 
> Kurt: Uh, how do you say 'grob' in English?
> 
> Kurt: I just wish you weren't always so very angry.  
> Warren: Do you want me to be your friend/boyfriend?  
> Kurt: Friend who's a boy, or boyfriend?
> 
> Kurt: Also, what did you call me?
> 
> Kurt: Oh, shut your trap!


	10. Chapter 10

Charles folded his hands carefully and looked across his desk at Hank. “ _How many_ did you say?”

“Including the three already scheduled, we have sixteen prospective students whose families want tours,” Hank said. “Four called yesterday, another nine have called today.”

“And it's not even lunchtime.” Charles smoothed a hand over his scalp. “Why so many all of a sudden?”

Hank shrugged. “At a guess, since what happened with Apocalypse, our visibility is up.”

“Even so.” He sighed. “I presume you took down their information.”

“Of course.” Hank nodded.

“Then I guess I'll start calling back the ones from yesterday to try to schedule them. The three we already had were all on the same day, weren't they?”

“I think so.”

Charles flipped through his appointment calendar. “Yes, that's right, the ninth of June. If possible, I'm going to try to schedule them all for the ninth for as well.”

“Sixteen tours in one day is a lot, Charles.”

“Oh, I realize that.” Charles gave him a tired smile. “But the fewer days we spend having to be presentable, the better.” He held out his hand for Hank's notepad of callers.

Down the hall, Erik was shut up in his own office. “I am not qualified to teach history,” he muttered, flipping through a textbook catalogue. “Then again, I don't think Charles is qualified to teach literature,” he continued to himself. There was a soft knock at the door. “It's unlocked.” He folded over the corner of the catalogue.

The door opened just enough for Wanda to slip in. She leaned back on the door, hands behind her, so it closed again. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Erik said cautiously.

“Thanks for doing my nails yesterday.” She held up a hand and wiggled her fingers.

He shrugged. “It wasn't any trouble.”

“I still appreciate it.” She examined her nails. “I'm pretty sure this is the neatest manicure I've ever had and there's no way I could make a pattern like this myself.”

“Well, you're welcome.”

They just stood there looking at each other for a long moment. Erik cleared his throat and smoothed out the page he had just dogeared. She took two steps into the room. “We look like you don't we?”

He looked up at her and nodded.

“Is that weird for you?”

He let out a breath. “Not as weird as how much you look like my other daughter.”

Her eyebrows arched. “You have another daughter?”

“I used to,” Erik said quietly.

“Oh.” She looked away. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.”

Wanda chewed her lip. “What's her name? Unless you don't want to talk about her.”

“Nina,” Erik said shortly. “She was almost eleven.”

“Her mother…?” Wanda asked softly.

“Died with her.” Erik touched the locket through his shirt.

“I'm really sorry.”

Erik shook his head. “Not your fault.”

“I still wish you didn't have to go through that.” She hugged herself. “No one should have to go through that.” When he didn't respond, she asked, “Where were you living?”

“Poland.”

“So, you speak Polish?”

He nodded. “Fluent in English and Polish—grew up speaking German. Passable in French, Russian, Dutch, and Swedish. I know a little Italian, Spanish, Yiddish, and Hebrew.”

“Wow. I took seven years of Spanish and I can barely order at a restaurant.”

“First of all, you're American, you don't get as much language exposure as most people do in the rest of the world; second of all, I doubt you've ever been in the position of having no choice but to pick up the local language. It's amazing how fast you can learn under duress.”

“That's true.” She wandered around to his side of the desk. “The Yiddish and Hebrew, Peter mentioned—you're Jewish, right?”

“I am.” He studied her. “You and Peter were talking about me?”

“A little.” She gave a small smile, then it faded. “I'm not sure how I feel about you, but I'm glad he found you. For his sake.”

“He does seem,” Erik paused to search for words, “almost desperate.”

She shrugged and looked over at the window. “He never really got along with our stepfather. Bill was a good guy, don't get me wrong, but Hellen was his princess and he doted on her. I was able to kinda ride along with that—she joined Girl Scouts, I joined Girl Scouts; she'd set her sights and some doll or something and he'd get it for her, usually he'd get me one too, or something similar that was more appropriate for how much older I am; so on and so forth. So I had a dad. Peter, not so much. It wasn't that Bill was trying to leave him out, he just didn't think to do anything that wasn't for Hellen, so since Pete's a guy….” She held her hands up. “And Peter has trouble relating to people anyway. Always has, but it got worse when he started getting weird—” She cut herself off. “Sorry, I just realized that phrasing is probably insensitive.”

Erik chuckled despite himself. “Far from the worst I've ever heard.”

“Sorry. That's just what we started calling it, him and me and mom. Anyway. When his abilities started to manifest,” she said carefully, “he got even worse at people. And Bill was a little...bothered. Not like scared, or like he was gonna kick Peter out or anything, he just didn't know how to deal with it positively, so he just kinda didn't deal with at all, acted like it wasn't a thing. Which—and Peter will not say this but it's true—it made him feel like Bill was acting like _he_ wasn't real, not just that his powers weren't.” She sighed and shook her head. “Then Bill got shot and died and Peter felt like an asshole for not liking the dead guy. He still kinda feels guilty about that.”

“That explains a lot,” Erik said.

Wanda nodded. “For you to even acknowledge that he exists, that he is what he is and he's yours, that's a big thing for him.” She laughed tiredly. “Who can tell I'm a psychology major?”

Erik felt his lips twitch into a smile. “Never would have guessed.”

When Wanda left, Erik briefly returned his attention to the catalogue on his desk, then got up and went down the hall to Charles's office. Charles was on the phone. “Yes, that's right.” He glanced up at Erik and beckoned him in while the person on the other end of the line spoke. “Oh, of course. We look forward to seeing you and we'll be more than glad to welcome your daughter. Alright. Have a nice day, Mrs. Mathis.” He hung up, leaned on his desk, and looked at Erik. “We have seven campus tours scheduled for the ninth of June.”

“That's a lot,” Erik noted.

“If all goes well, there'll be nine more.”

“Why did you decide to let Wanda stay here for the summer?”

Charles arched an eyebrow and settled back in his chair. “She wanted to spend time with her brother. It seemed harmless enough. We're not in session, anyway, she's hardly in the way.”

“Those are your justifications, Charles.” He walked over and leaned on his hands on the edge of Charles's desk. “What are your reasons?”

Charles looked up at him. “I think she _might_ be a mutant.”

“I was under the impression you could tell whether people are,” Erik said flatly.

“I usually can,” Charles said. He ran a hand over his head. “There's a different feel to our minds, a surface texture of sorts. There are two textures I'm accustomed to: mutant and not. She's...different. I don't know what to make of it.”

“So you had her stay here so you can study her,” Erik accused.

“I accepted her request to stay because it was reasonable,” Charles corrected. “As a bonus, it gives me a chance to potentially satisfy my curiosity. Now then.” He moved out from behind his desk. “I'm going to go make myself some tea. You're welcome to come with me if you have anything else to talk about.”

Erik followed him out into the hall. “You are a conniving, meddling, opportunistic son of a bitch.”

“You're absolutely right.” Charles pressed the elevator call button. “And to think, you haven't even met my mother.”

Erik rolled his eyes as the elevator dinged and he stepped in after Charles. “It astounds me sometimes that I've never actually killed you just for being obnoxious.”

“You like me too much.” Charles grinned and winked as the doors closed. “On which note, are we going to talk about last night?”

“No.”

“We should.”

“There's nothing to talk about.”

“You know that's not true.”

“It's not happening, Charles.”

“Let me know when you change your mind.”

They got out on the first floor and headed for the kitchen. As they crossed the foyer, the front door was thrown open by Warren, thoroughly grass stained, his jeans torn at the knees, his own knees and hands scraped up.

“What happened to you?” Erik asked.

“Jumped off the roof,” Warren spat, slamming the door shut with a resounding thud.

“Are you alright?” Charles asked at the same time Erik asked, “Can't you fly?”

“Oh, sod off,” Warren muttered as he stalked away upstairs, presumably to shower.

Charles watched him go, then slowly continued in the direction of the kitchen.

“He can fly,” Erik said. “Why would he end up in the grass like that jumping off the roof?”

“If he _can't_ fly,” Charles said, “he's lucky not to have broken anything jumping off the roof.”

“He can fly, we've all seen him fly,” Erik pointed out as they got to the kitchen.

Charles flicked on the electric kettle. “We all saw him fly _before_ he got an airplane crashed on him, and I don't think anyone's seen him do more than ruffle his wings since he got here.”

Erik frowned. “He looks fine.”

“So do I,” Charles said pointedly.

“Oh.” Erik sat on the edge of the counter. “Oh, fuck.”

“Exactly. He hasn't said anything about being injured, but he also keeps bringing up the plane crash when he and Kurt are having their rows. He won't let it go.”

“That doesn't bode well.”

“No, it doesn't.” Charles sighed and ran a hand over his scalp. “I should probably talk to him.” He glanced at the kettle. “After my tea.”

“Well, since he's a limey tea-wop just like you, I'm sure he'll understand your priorities perfectly,” Erik mocked.

Charles arched an eyebrow at him. “Would _you_ like to go try to have conversation with a pissed of cage fighter that he clearly doesn't want to have? If so, be my guest. In any case, he most likely needs a minute to clean himself up.”

“Right.”

 

Warren stood shirtless in front of of his mirror, twisted to look at his back, grimacing as he flexed the joints of his wings at his shoulders. There was a knock at his door. He huffed and ran a hand through his damp mohawk. “I'm not dressed.”

“Are you wearing pants?” Charles's voice asked through the door.

“Yes.”

“Then I don't care.”

Warren huffed again and opened the door. “What do you want?”

“I brought tea.” Charles held up a small but very proper tea tray. “Though you might like some.”

“Uh.” Warren stared, then took the tray. “I'm flashing back to my grandmother,” he muttered as he set the tray on his dresser.

“Possibly because I have _my_ grandmother's tea things,” Charles said, coming into the room. “Looks like that was one hell of a fall you had.” He glanced pointedly at Warren's torn up knees and forearms.

“I'm fine.”

“You're bleeding.”

Warren looked down at the worse of his knees, which was dripping blood down his shin. “Ah, fuck.”

“There ought to be a first aid kit under the sink,” Charles said with a nod to the cramped attached bathroom. As Warren grabbed the first aid kit, Charles continued, “I'm surprised you got through a shower scratched up like that. I'm sure that stung.”

Warren shrugged, sat on his bed, and popped open the first aid kit. “It's only a flesh wound.”

“Did you just quote Monty Python?” Charles asked, taking the kit from him.

“Yes. And I can bandage myself.”

“Your knees, sure. The backs of your arms, less so.” He pulled out gauze, tape, and antiseptic, poked Warren to straighten out his leg, and started cleaning up the bleeding scrapes. “In any case, I'm pretty good at doctoring grass-burn.”

“Oh?” Warren asked with an air of skeptical boredom that _almost_ managed to cover his cringing.

Charles grinned. “I used to play rugby.”

Warren blinked. “ _You_ played rugby?”

Charles shrugged, smoothed down a bit of tape, and switched knees. “I wasn't brilliant, but I wasn't bad. I do recall being called vicious once or twice. It's helpful to know where the guy trying to tackle you is planning on running.”

“That's cheating.”

“It's called making up for being scrawny.” He grinned again, then gestured. “Let me see your arms.”

Warren snorted and rolled his eyes but held up his arms for Charles to bandage.

“Now, I must admit,” Charles said carefully, “I wonder why a man with wings would turn out so busted up from a jump of a roof.”

Warren looked away, scowling.

“Is there something wrong with your wings?” Charles asked gently.

“I'm fine,” Warren snapped.

“Allow me to point out again that you're bleeding,” Charles said flatly. “On which note, you don't have HIV, do you?”

“No! What the fuck, man?”

Charles held his palms up. “Just making sure. Now then, what's the matter with your wings?”

“Not all my feathers have grown back in, okay?” Warren said surlily. “There's not enough surface area to support my weight. I'll be fine.”

“That's it?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure?”

Warren shrugged. “I might've pulled a couple muscles, I'm a little sore, and I don't quite have my full range of motion. _I'll be fine_.”

“Alright.” Charles put things back into the first aid kit and snapped it shut. He handed it to Warren, then went to the door.

“Now you and Wagner can both drop it.”

Charles turned back. “Kurt's been worrying over your wings.”

“I told him I'm fine, git won't listen to me.”

“To be fair, at the moment you're _not_ fine. Is he what you were doing on the roof?”

“I wish I were doing him on the roof,” Warren muttered, then snapped his mouth shut and looked up at Charles warily.

“Warren, I know,” Charles said softly. “Don't worry.”

Warren nodded once and Charles left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No German this chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently the hover text translation doesn't work on mobile. If this is causing a problem, just let me know in the comments and I'll resume the end note translations and fill them in for the chapters that don't have them.

After leaving him on roof, Kurt didn't see Warren again until dinner. Warren's arms were wrapped in gauze bandages from elbow to palm. Kurt couldn't bring himself to look at Warren, just bowed his head over his chimichanga. He could feel Warren scowling at him from down the table. Kurt didn't say anything the entire meal, then as they were leaving, he fell into step beside Warren. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Warren said stiffly. “No thanks to you.”

Kurt glared. “This is not my fault.”

“You left me on the roof!”

“You said there was nothing wrong with your wings,” Kurt sniffed. “I believed you. Apparently you were lying.”

“I was not—”

“Besides,” Kurt continued, “you brought it on yourself. If you'd stopped when I told you to I wouldn't have left you up there.”

Amid glares from the other kids and a couple knowing looks from Raven and Charles, they turned away from the main group wandering to the rec room or off upstairs and went down an empty hallway of classrooms.

“I'm still right, you like it.”

“That doesn't matter. If I say not to do something, don't,” Kurt said sharply.

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Warren crossed his arms.

“You're not not hurt too badly, though?”

“I'm fine.”

“You've said that about your wings, then you fell off the roof,” Kurt accused.

“It's just scratches, they'll heal.” He glanced out a window and sighed almost exasperatedly. “Look, you're serious about the whole dating thing?”

Kurt nodded. “I told you, I won't do anything if we're not.”

Warren huffed again. “So, what? _Was willst du?_ I don't have any money or anything.”

“That's okay.” Kurt shrugged. “I'm not demanding candlelit dinners in fancy restaurants.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Just, that you try? That we spend some time and _not_ fight?”

Warren ran his tongue along teeth, considering, then shrugged one wing and nodded. “Okay.”

Kurt's tail flicked against the wall. “Okay?”

Warren shrugged his shoulders and ruffled his wings. “Okay.”

A little, disbelieving smile tugged at Kurt's lips. “So, you're my boyfriend?”

“If am, can I kiss you now?”

Kurt's smile widened. “ _Ja_.”

Warren smirked, reached up to cup a hand at the back of Kurt's neck, fingers in his jet hair, and pulled him down just a bit to kiss him deeply. Kurt raised a hand to Warren's jaw, thumb against his cheek. When they broke apart, Kurt was smiling. Warren rolled his eyes but grinned back. Kurt kissed his cheek and took his hand. A shiver ran through Warren and he looked down at their intertwined hands. “Okay, the three fingers thing is just weird.”

“ _Ach, schnauze. *”_

 

 

Erik leaned back in his chair. He'd picked out a textbook, filled out the order form, and started drawing up lesson plans despite not really knowing what he was doing. Now, it was long past dark. He got up, stretched, and wandered out of his office. Way down the hall, he could just barely hear Peter and Wanda laughing about something. Other than that, the house was quiet. He went down the wing to his own room, passing Hank and Raven's closed doors on the way. He'd just gotten to his own door when he stopped and turned back. Charles's door was open, but he wasn't in his room. Erik frowned. He went back down the wing and looked in Charles's office but he wasn't there either. Frown deepening, he went downstairs. He wasn't in the kitchen or dining room having a late night tea, and he wasn't in the library, but as Erik approached the rec room, he heard the soft chiming and excitement of a TV gameshow with the volume turned low.

Sure enough, when he got there, Family Feud was on the TV and slumped over asleep in the corner of the sofa, paperwork spilling off his blanket-covered lap, was Charles. Erik allowed himself a fond smile then turned off the TV, set aside Charles's files, willed his chair over, then carefully scooped him up and set him in it. Charles barely stirred. Erik took him out into the hall, walking beside and just behind the chair, pushing it without touching it.

He paused. If they took the elevator, the dinging might wake Charles. He could levitate Charles in his chair up the stairs, but if he happened to wake up, there was a chance he'd startle badly enough to fall out, which would not be good. That left one other option.

At the foot of the stairs, he scooped Charles out of his chair again and kind of cradled him against himself so he wouldn't flop about in his sleep while he carried him upstairs, chair floating along empty behind them. It was rather disconcerting how little Charles weighed, even more disconcerting how thin and bony his legs felt through his trousers, nothing like they'd been the last time Erik had had occasion to touch them. He shook his head, and forcibly turned his thoughts away, focusing instead on keeping the chair at a consistent height. Charles made a soft sound and turned his head to press his face to Erik's shoulder.

Erik didn't bother to put Charles back in his chair at the top of the stairs. He'd just have to pick him up again to put him in bed, anyway. Once to Charles's room, he nudged the door shut with his foot then gently lay Charles in his nest of pillows. After a moment of consideration, he took off Charles's shoes.

The thought seemed trite to Erik, but he couldn't help but thinking that Charles looked quite peaceful in his sleep. He reached out to carefully, gently brush a knuckle against the professor's cheek. Charles's forehead crinkled, then his eyes opened. Erik withdrew his hand quickly. “Sorry.”

“Erik?” Charles said blearily.

“Go back to sleep.” He started to step away but Charles managed to grab his wrist before he was out of reach.

“Stay with me,” he whispered.

“I—Charles, no.”

“Please, Erik.”

“I can't.” Erik looked to the tiny sliver of light from the all but closed door.

“Why not?”

Erik closed his eyes and sighed. “It's not a good idea.”

“Erik, no one here cares,” Charles said warmly. “Warren and—”

“That's not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“Charles,” Erik shook his head. “You don't want to be close to me.”

“Yes, I do,” Charles said firmly, tightening his grip on Erik's wrist. “I love you.”

“Don't say that,” Erik snapped.

“Why shouldn't I?” Charles pushed himself up on his other arm, not showing any lingering signs of grogginess. “It's true.”

Erik turned to him, snarling quietly. “Do you _want_ to get yourself killed? Because that's what happens to anyone stupid enough to care about me.”

Charles laughed, which made Erik bristle. “I'm sorry, old friend, I'm sorry,” Charles said. “But do you realize how many times I've _almost_ died? Yet I'm still here. As for the bigoted extremists the universe seems to keep sending after your loved ones, I invite them to have a go at me,” he said coldly. “I would break them. They'd wish they were dead but be too mad even to kill themselves. And they'd deserve it.”

For a long moment, Erik just stared at him in the dimness. “You're terrifying sometimes, you know that?”

Charles grinned. “I'm pretty sure you like it.”

“It's rather reassuring, yes.”

Charles's grin warmed into a fond smile and he lifted Erik's hand to kiss his knuckles. “Stay with me.”

Erik shook his head and pulled his hand away. “If I stay I'll never leave,” he murmured, barely audible.

“Good.”

Erik sighed and said nothing. He shook his head again. “Let me go change.”

“Okay.” Charles nodded. “I'll be here.”

Erik nodded and went to change into pajamas. He considered not returning to Charles's room but decided that if he didn't, facing Charles the next day would be a special kind of hell. When he came back, Charles had stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, the rest of his clothes thrown haphazardly onto a chair in the corner, and he'd pulled back the blankets and rearranged his pillows to better accommodate not sleeping alone. Cautiously, Erik shut the door behind him. He went over and got into bed without looking at Charles, but Charles pulled the blankets up over them both, wrapped an arm around him, kissed his shoulder, and murmured, “Relax, Erik.” He combed his fingers through Erik's hair. “Get some sleep.”

Erik didn't respond, just closed his eyes and tried not to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German this Chapter:   
> Warren: What do you want?
> 
> Kurt: Oh, shut up.*  
> *I can't find confirmation of this translation online anywhere, but the German side of my family uses it, as do several of my classmates and professors. I figure it's slang, but I know it gets used.


	12. Chapter 12

Even after a week, it was strange to wake up in Charles's bed. Most mornings, Erik didn't actually wake up next to Charles because Charles seemed to habitually get up at the crack of dawn, so Erik instead found himself waking up to the sounds of Charles showering or puttering around getting dressed later in the morning. He'd woken up when Charles had gotten up once over the past week, seen that it still wasn't light out, rolled over and gone back to sleep.

Now, he sat up groggily, the morning sun falling across the foot of the bed, and he spent a minute watching Charles button up his shirt. Erik shifted onto his elbow. “What do you go do so damn early?”

Charles looked around at him with a small smile and gave half a shrug. “I go down to the gym in the basement. Good morning, by the way.”

“Good morning,” Erik mumbled. He ran a hand over his face and sat up more fully. “The gym?”

“I lift weights.” Charles shrugged again. “I need to be able to lift my own body weight so I can do things like get in and out of my chair unassisted, so everyday is arm day. If I used a push chair, making a special effort would be less necessary, but push chairs come with rotator cuff problems I do not have time for in my life.”

“...that makes sense,” Erik said.

Charles smiled and nodded to the door. “Go get dressed, I need to speak with everyone after breakfast.”

Erik nodded, yawned, got up, and went down the hall to his own room where all his clothes still were.

 

Rosalinda had made french toast, which seemed like an awful lot of effort to Erik but it was delicious and he wasn't about to question her decision making. Charles looked around the table as he ate. “Where are Peter and Kurt?”

Most everyone shrugged. Wanda said, “Doctor's appointment,” as she drowned her toast in maple syrup. “Peter's got a thing about his leg and Kurt gave him a lift.”

“How long do you think they'll be gone?” Charles asked.

She shrugged. “Not sure. Shouldn't be too long, definitely before lunch, it was a really early appointment. I can't believe Peter agreed to it, he's not exactly a morning person, but whatever.”

“I see,” Charles said. He reached across Erik to accept the serving plate of bacon Scott was vaguely offering to anyone who was interested. “Well, as soon as they're back we all need to get together and talk about the tours for prospective students we have scheduled for next Saturday.”

Hank eyed him from over his cup of coffee. “Did you really manage to get them all scheduled for one day?”

“I did,” Charles said proudly.

“Wouldn't that be a staff meeting?” Jubilee asked.

“No,” Charles said. “Consider your participation as your rent for the summer.”

Jubilee frowned, Warren rolled his eyes disgustedly, and Jean snickered. Ororo shrugged and kept eating. Neither Scott nor Wanda particularly reacted, both far more interested in their food.

 

After breakfast, everyone gathered in the rec room to watch Erik and Warren play pool while they waited for the boys to return. The German trash talking had just started to get really filthy when there was a soft pop, and Peter announced loudly, “I'm back bitches!”

Everyone turned to look. Kurt was face-palming. Next to him, arms held open like Jesus and grinning like an idiot, was Peter, no crutches, no cast. “Got my cast off a week and a half before they thought I would.”

“Because you actually healed up quicker than they expected,” Wanda asked, “or because you bugged them until they agreed to free you?”

“Because I healed,” Peter said sternly. He started to run off, but after two steps he fell hard, face to the floor. Everyone, minus Wanda, cringed. He groaned and rolled over slowly.

“Really instilling confidence there, Pete,” Wanda said flatly.

“Are you alright?” Kurt asked.

“Oh, he's okay,” Wanda said. “One time, I tripped him at full speed and he was fine. We had a nice Peter-shaped hole in the back yard until the next big rainstorm.”

“I was not fine,” Peter said breathlessly, pushing himself to sit up. “I had a bloody nose.”

Wanda shrugged. “For like two minutes.”

Charles cleared his throat. “I'm glad the two of you are back. Peter, I'm glad you're well. Now that everyone's here, we have things we need to talk about.” With everyone's attention on him, he continued. “This coming Saturday, sixteen families are coming to visit the school to tour it and see if they want to send their kids here. We want them to send their kids here. Hank, Erik, Raven, we'll be giving the tours. Raven and Erik, since you're new here, I thought you could work together. Two families agreed to share a tour, so there will be fifteen tours, five for each of us. I expect a tour will last an hour and half or so, including stalling and questioning and all that. With a half hour break after each tour to rest and prepare for the next, that's a ten hour day, but it ought to be manageable. I'm still working up schedules, I'll give them to you once I've finished. As for the rest of you,” he looked around at the kids, “for the most part I just ask that you be on your best behavior and do what you can to make this place seem inviting. Also, we will need someone to be on reception duty, greet people as they arrive.”

“I volunteer,” Peter said, raising his hand.

“No,” Wanda said firmly. “Are you kidding? Sitting still for ten hours, you'd lose your mind, then drive us out of ours. I'll do it.”

“Thank you, Wanda,” Charles said. “Peter, if you're more...surefooted by next week, I think you might be more helpful as a runner, making sure everyone has everything they need. In the meantime, there's a treadmill in the basement you might want to acquaint yourself with.”

Peter gave a chagrinned little smile and held up a thumbs up.

 

As the meeting broke up and the faculty clumped together to discuss details the kids didn't care about, Kurt grabbed Warren by the arm and in one disorienting, sulfurous lurch they were out somewhere in the grounds. Warren stumbled. “Whoa, little warning before you do that.”

“Sorry,” Kurt said softly.

“ _Arschloch_ ,” Warren muttered with a hint a fondness.

“Wanker,” Kurt shot back.

“First of all,” Warren said, strutting around Kurt to run his tail through his fingers, “yes, but I wouldn't be if you'd just come to bed with me already. Second of all, you suck at pronouncing Ws.”

Kurt rolled his eyes and whipped his tail away from Warren. “First of all, it's only been a week. Second of all, there is no W sound in German, which you know.”

“Vich you know,” Warren mocked. Kurt shoved him. He laughed, tackled Kurt to the grass, and kissed him roughly. Kurt kissed him back, ran his hands down Warren's chest, then pushed him off.

“Okay,” Kurt said. Warren mouthed at his throat and Kurt squirmed away. “Okay, _das't genug_.”

Warren made a sound of frustration in his throat and sat back on the grass. “Do you realize the first time we kissed is the hottest time we kissed?”

Kurt folded his legs under him, picked a blade of grass to fiddle with, and shrugged. “I wasn't thinking the first time. I've told you, I don't want to just fool around and have it mean nothing.”

“We've been dating for a week.”

“A week is not that long, and really you've just spent a week making a concerted effort to talk you way into my pants.”

“Have we had the conversation about how when I say pants it means something different than when the Americans say pants.”

“Yes.” He held up one finger, which still bore the chipped remnants of Hellen's nail art. “And don't change the subject, you started this conversation.”

“Yeah, okay.” Warren sighed. “So what exactly is your hang up? I'm not some stranger.”

“No, you're not,” Kurt agreed. “And I do like you, but I don't feel close to you, so I won't have sex with you.”

“And how am I supposed to fix that?” Warren crossed his arms.

“Well, you can start by stopping trying to to fuck me.” Kurt picked another blade of grass with more force than really required.

“Yeah, that's not gonna happen,” Warren snorted.

“Then I'm going to keep shoving you off!” Kurt stood up to pace, tail flicking. “All we do is argue and you come on to me. We don't talk—this is the longest conversation we've had all week that hasn't been yelling and, _ja_ , I do know I'm almost yelling now. We don't hang out. We're not really dating, you only said we are because you think that's how to get me in bed.”

“You told me that's how to get you in bed!”

“ _Nein_!” Kurt snapped. “This is not what I told you. I told you I won't sleep with you if we're not dating, but dating is not a promise I'll sleep with you. Even if it were, **we're not really dating** _ **.**_ We haven't done anything that looks like a date, Warren.”

“I told you I don't have any money!”

“I told you you don't have to spend money!” Kurt flopped back on the grass, gave a shaky sigh, and pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead. “We could just sit here and talk—not about sex, not fighting. We don't know each other that well, we must have things to tell each other. _Das w_ _ä_ _re ein Anfang_ _._ ”

Warren tossed his hands up. “Okay, _was ist dein Lieblingsfarbe?_ ”

“ _Blau_ _._ ”

“ _Wirklich_?” Warren asked incredulously. Kurt nodded. Warren laughed. “That's narcissistic as fuck, man.”

“Not this blue.” Kurt poked himself in the cheek. “Really bright, light blue. Electric blue.”

“Okay.”

“And you?”

“Red.”

“I like red,” Kurt said warmly.

“You wear it enough.”

Kurt shrugged and preened a little. “It looks good on me.”

Warren looked him over. “Yeah, it does. How are you not dying in that jacket? It's gotta be about thirty degrees out here.”

“I don't get too warm easy.” He shrugged again. “I don't do well in cold.”

“Uhhuh,” Warren said skeptically. “Didn't you grow up in the Alps?”

“No,” Kurt said emphatically. “Just near them. I don't go outside much _im Winter_.”

“Given I've never seen you wear shoes, I shouldn't be surprised.”

Kurt flexed his toes. “There aren't shoes that fit my feet.” He looked curiously at Warren. “Where did you grow up?”

Warren started to answer, then stopped himself. “How well do you know English geography?”

“Uh, not very.”

“In that case, I grew up south of Bristol, which is west of London.”

Kurt nodded slowly. “Okay. How was that?”

Warren grimaced. “Privileged,” he said with disgust. “My family's old money, bunch of stuck up, prissy, self-important twats. Didn't take it well when these came in.” He ruffled his wings. “Not well at all.”

Kurt frowned. “What do you mean 'came in?'”

“I wasn't born with wings,” Warren said, sounding almost surprised.

“You weren't?”

Warren shook his head. “They started growing when I was eleven, and Jesus fuck it hurt. And itched. Oh, stop looking at me like that, I blaspheme as much as I curse and you know it.”

“It still takes me aback,” Kurt said defensively.

Warren shoved his shoulder. “So sheltered.”

“Raised by nuns,” Kurt reminded.

“Yeah, yeah,” Warren snorted. “But, I swear, you think it hurts as a kid when your bones are growing? Try growing whole new bones. It's a fucking bitch. I didn't know what was happening, I though I was dying. Showed 'em to my mum and she told me to hide 'em. Wasn't too hard at first. They were little and it was winter, I was wearing bulky jumpers and jackets and stuff anyway. After a while though, you know, it warmed up and they got bigger, and my dad found out. Treated me like a monster,” Warren spat. Kurt touched his arm gently. Warren looked away and twisted to scratch at the first joint of one wing. “I tried to cut them off with a razor. Didn't work, just hurt and made a mess.” He shrugged. “After that I ran away, took a couple trains to my aunt in Berlin. She didn't give a fuck if I was freak, she'd tolerate me as long as I made myself useful.”

“Is that how you got into cage fighting?” Kurt asked softly.

“Duh.” Warren snorted. “The money was great. It wasn't 'til later I realized I was trapped.”

Kurt nodded. He gave Warren's hand a squeeze. “Thank you for telling me all that.”

Warren gave a dismissive half shrug and didn't look at Kurt.

Kurt kissed his cheek. “I mean it.” He sat back. “ _Bist du schon gesund_?”

Warren held up his arms, displaying the remnants of his abrasions. “Scratches are almost gone and my feathers are about all back in so, _ja, ich bin gesund_.”

Kurt smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German this chapter:  
> Warren: Asshole.
> 
> Kurt: that's enough.
> 
> Kurt: That would be a start.  
> Warren: Okay, what's your favorite colour?  
> Kurt: Blue.  
> Warren: Really?
> 
> Kurt: Are you well now?  
> Warrren: yeah, I'm well.


	13. Chapter 13

Eric walked out of the rec room after Charles and Jean, who was walking a couple steps behind Charles's chair. She crossed her arms and tossed her hair. Without looking around, Charles shrugged one shoulder and nodded. Jean snorted, shook her head, and stalked off toward the foyer. Erik followed Charles to the elevator. “What was that? Back there, with Jean?”

Charles chuckled. “A conversation.”

“In each other's minds,” Erik said, reserved.

“Yes.” Charles smiled a little. “We can pretty much always hear each other if we're anywhere near each other, so it's natural at this point.”

“I see.” He followed Erik out of the elevator. “What's that like?”

Charles smirked. “Fast. It's easier to communicate with her like that than it is for me to talk to everyone else without listening to their thoughts. Like I said, natural.”

“It really does take you a lot of effort to stay out of people's heads, doesn't it?” Erik asked, following Charles into his office.

“It does,” Charles admitted. “It's become second nature for me, but it's still very difficult for her, and it's not effortless even for me.”

Erik nodded. “Doesn't it bother you to have a teenaged girl invading your privacy like that?”

Charles shook his head, smiling almost indulgently. “Privacy means something different to me and to Jean than it does to most people—it's not a lack of knowledge, but a lack of acknowledgement. It's far more effort than it's worth to prevent her from knowing things it would generally be inappropriate for a student to know about their teacher, so as long as she doesn't act on those things she otherwise should not know, that's enough. I extend her the same courtesy. We both extend it to everyone else—to varying degrees.”

Erik leaned against a bookcase while Charles attended to papers on his desk. “If you didn't do that—if you didn't keep out of people's head's—what would it be like to talk to you?”

Charles turned a page in one of his four planners. “I'm not sure I can explain that.”

“You have done that, haven't you?”

“Of course. With my parents—they hated it. Occasionally with Raven when we were young. That's it, really.”

For a while, Erik was quiet, then, cautiously, he asked, “Can you show me?”

Charles looked up at him slowly. “Are you giving me permission to enter your mind?”

Erik nodded slightly. “Yeah.”

Charles smiled a little. “Well, thank you. Oh, no need to be so nervous—I think I have some idea of most of your secrets already. You've either told me or I was there. We have crossed paths a lot, it's true. Fate, quantum entanglement—call it what you may.” He laughed a little. “I can't imagine life without you at this point. In either sense—though I do prefer the sharing a bed to the grand battles. Not only is the latter a mess and quite stressful, I happen to genuinely enjoy the former, which you already knew. Don't be embarrassed, I know. I'd like that too, you're welcome to try. You're blushing! Honestly, how old are you Erik? Right. No, you really can't—thought is faster than speech. It _would_ be more efficient but people tend to find it even more invasive—words give thought form and direction. No, but you'd have trouble following it. You're not stupid, you're just not me—Jean can have trouble sorting through nebulous thought like that. Alright, alright. I'll stop.”

Erik stared at him. Charles smiled angelically. Erik dug a hand through his hair. “That is _terrifying_ , Charles.”

“Which you find extremely attractive,” Charles laughed.

Erik shrugged, arms out. “I guess there's not much point denying that.”

“Not really, no,” Charles said, grinning.

“Right.” Erik shook his head. “Well, you have scheduling to do, I think.”

“I do.”

“I'll let you do that, then”

Charles nodded and sifted through some of the papers on his desk. “Maybe you should go bully your son into some self-administered physical therapy.”

Erik chuckled. “Alright.” He left the office and went to find Peter. He found him in the dining room, glowering into a bowl of Batman cereal, which was a rather frighteningly bright yellow. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Petter grumbled.

“You okay?” Erik asked carefully.

“Still can't run.”

“You _just_ got off crutches,” Erik pointed out. “You're not going to be one-hundred percent yet. You have to work back up.” Peter made a displeased sound and crunched his cereal. Erik hesitated then reached out and ruffled Peter's hair. “Why don't you finish your cereal and come down to the gym?”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter said with a dramatic sigh. He pushed away from the table, picked up his bowl, and took it to the kitchen.

“I did say you could finish your cereal,” Erik called after him.

“Eh,” Peter shrugged. “It's pretty disappointing.”

“Alright, then.”

They were quiet until Peter asked in the elevator, “You met my mom in France, right?”

“Uh, yes,” Erik confirmed.

“What the hell were you doing in France?”

The door dinged and opened. “Hiding. I told you I was on the run.”

“Yeah, you did.” Peter walked over and lay a hand on the console of the treadmill. “I'm so sure I'm gonna break this thing.”

“If you do, it'll mean you're back up to speed, so maybe breaking the treadmill ought to be a goal.” A bench slid over and Erik sat on it without looking.

Peter snorted. “Yeah, let's go with that.” He switched the treadmill on and eased up to what for him was a lazy jog—most people would have been nearly sprinting. At least he wasn't falling. He took a breath. “How'd you meet her?”

“She offered to share her pizza with me.” Erik picked at his fingernails. “There's this church—I forget which one, it's not Notre Dame, there are in fact other churches in Paris.” He allowed himself a grin at Peter's snort of laughter. “It's up on this hill, and at the bottom of the hill there's a carousel. Across from the carousel there's a shop that sells pizza and crepes. She'd gotten pizza, we were both sheltering from the rain under what little overhang there is on the ticket wagon for the carousel, and she asked if I was hungry.”

“That sounds like a fucking movie,” Peter noted.

“I'm pretty sure it is a movie,” Erik chuckled. “From the sixties, I think. Actually, it might have come out the year you were born.”

“That would be ironic.”

“It would,” Erik agreed.

Peter bumped the speed up a little. “Wanda said you had another kid?”

“Can we not talk about that?” Erik asked sharply.

“Yeah,” Peter said quickly. “Yeah, sorry.”

Neither of them said anything for a while after that. Peter incrementally increased the speed on the treadmill until he stumbled and very nearly slammed his face into the console, at which point he backed it back down, muttering a rapidfire string of what was definitely cursing. Erik glanced at him. “What German have you learned?”

“Huh?”

“You've been taking notes on Kurt and Warren's fights and asking me for translations,” Erik said flatly. “You must have learned something by now.”

“Uh, some cursing and insults mostly.” Peter shrugged. “I don't know.”

“ _Lass mich h_ _ö_ _ren_ ,” Erik said with a bit of a grin.

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“Let me hear.”

“Uh.” Peter shrugged again. “ _Dummkopf_ is stupid-head. _Arsch_ is ass, _Arschloch_ is asshole. _Schei_ _ß_ _e_ is shit. Uh, blue is _blau_. I think, is wing _Fl_ _ü_ _gel_?”

“It is,” Erik said approvingly. “You've gotten a lot better at pronouncing umlauts.”

“I mean, I guess I've just heard them more,” Peter said. He was just barely breathing hard. “Hey, in German, what would I call you?”

“I imagine you'd call me my name, which is pronounced the same.”

“No, I mean, like, what's 'dad?'” Peter asked, then awkwardly tacked on, “'Cause I do call you that, you know.”

Erik took a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “ _Vati_ , I guess. Or papa.”

“ _Vati_?”

“Yeah, though that sounds kind of juvenile. I hear papa more.”

Peter nodded. After a moment he asked, “Names get pronounced different?”

“Of course names get pronounced different,” Erik snorted. “ _Mein Gott, Peter_ ,” he smirked, saying it like pay-ter.

Peter laughed. “I didn't really think about that before I asked. I know I've heard you and Kurt say Warren's name way different when you're speaking German. It's like, what? Vahrrrhen?”

Erik cringed. “Okay, the R is not **that** guttural.”

“Yes, it is.”

“It's really not.”

Peter gave an exaggerated R that sounded like a wookie in pain, and laughed until the treadmill suddenly stopped under his feet, he ran straight into the console, and fell. “Oh, ow, shit,” he groaned. “Did you do that?” he snapped at his father.

“Maybe.”

Peter glared. Erik smirked. Peter flicked him off and lay back. Erik laughed. The treadmill slowly rolled just enough to dump Peter on the floor. “I hate you so much,” he intoned lowly.

“I hate you, too,” Erik said without a hint of malice as he offered Peter a hand to help him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erik: My God, Peter.
> 
> All other German translated in-line.


	14. Chapter 14

Warren walked out of the bathroom after breakfast and damn near walked into Jean. She smacked a paperclipped fold of cash to his chest and ordered, “Take him to a movie.”

With that she turned on her heel and strode off down the hall. Bewildered, he thumbed through the bills. “Jesus, how much do movies cost in the states?”

“Spend the rest on food, _dummkopf_!” she called over her shoulder.

 

Kurt looked up from his book at a knock on his doorframe. Warren was leaning there, shoulder wedged against the door jamb. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Kurt said carefully. He scooped up his bookmark with his tail and dropped it between the pages of his book.

“You wanna go see a movie?”

Kurt grinned slowly. “Are you asking me out?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Warren huffed. “Do you wanna see a movie or not?”

“Absolutely,” Kurt said brightly and set his book aside. “What movie?”

“I have no idea what's even running.”

“Then let's go to the cinema and see.” Kurt stood and kissed Warren's cheek. “Put a shirt on.”

Warren kissed him back roughly but quickly on the mouth then went back out of the room. Kurt pulled on something other than his rumpled sweatpants then went down the hall to Warren's room. He frowned and tilted his head. “Why are you wearing that?”

“What?” Warren asked defensively as he fiddled with the lapels of the thick leather jacket he had on. “Hides my wings.”

“It's too hot even for me to wear a jacket,” Kurt said dubiously. “And you're going to be with me, we **will** get looked at. There's not point roasting yourself.”

Warren let out a long breath. “I guess you're right.”

Kurt tugged the jacket off of Warren, dropped it on the bed, and kissed his shoulder. “ _Du bist sehr sch_ _ö_ _n—du wei_ _ß_ _t das, ja_? ”

Warren shrugged. “Let's go. You know where the theater is or we gotta get a cab?”

“I can get us to the mall.” He held out a hand to Warren.

 

Their sudden appearance on the sidewalk just outside the mall earned a few startled sounds, glares, and scattering from a gaggle of teenaged girls with chunky plastic bracelets. Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt saw Warren tighten his wings against his back. He nudged his arm and murmured, “Chin up, shoulders back, und walk.”

Warren let out a huff, fluffed up his feathers, and did as Kurt said. There was a cool rush of air conditioning as the doors slid open and they went into the mall. Warren stayed a half step behind Kurt, letting him catch the brunt of the stares—at least from the front. People were definitely doing double takes behind them but neither of them looked.

They passed several clothing shops, a lingerie store, a photo studio, and a perfume boutique that made them both cough before they got to the theater. They stopped in front of the box office, stood carefully not in line, and studied at the board of movie times. Warren glanced at his watch. “Looks like Indiana Jo—”

He cut himself off to glare around at some guy behind them who had whispered very loudly, “Does that dude have fucking wings?”

“Yeah, I've got fucking wings,” Warren snapped. “You got a problem?”

Kurt grabbed his arm and hauled him into the ticket line as the likely girlfriend of the guy gaped. Warren started to object but Kurt hissed, “ _Es lohnt sich nicht_.”

Warren snorted, shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, ruffled his wings, and glared. Kurt elbowed him gently and he shrugged and shook his head. “Should've worn my jacket.”

“You know I'm getting stared at too, right?”

“Nobody's saying shit about you,” Warren grumbled.

“ **I** go out, people see me from time to time, they go home and tell their friends they saw a blue guy with a tail, people have heard of me so when they do see me they just stare.” Kurt sighed. He tossed up his hands. “You're new.”

“Fuck that.”

When they got up to the window, the girl manning the box office paused for a second in smacking her gum to glance between the two of them. “You guys go to that school, don't you?”

“Yeah, yeah, we do,” Warren said gruffly. “Two tickets for _Indiana Jones_.”

They got their tickets, got a popcorn—and a Coke Kurt carried with his tail because it was too cold for his hands—then went and got seats in the very back row which, to Warren's pleasant surprise, didn't quite back all the way up against the wall. He spread his wings out in the couple inches of space behind the chairs with a satisfied huff. Kurt grinned at him and went to take a sip of the Coke, but Warren snatched it from him and made him dribble cola.

“You suck,” Kurt muttered, wiping his mouth. Warren snickered.

The lights dimmed and a few trailers ran—the only thing they agreed looked worth seeing was something about karate that was coming out in a couple weeks. A few minutes into the movie, Kurt twined his tail around Warren's ankle under their seats. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Warren glance warily at him, but he didn't look over and Warren didn't pull away.

 

~*~

 

Wanda curled catlike in a chair in the rec room, watching her father teach her brother German while Erik waited to play the winner of Raven and Scott's game of pool. Or, at least, she watched her father _try_ to teach her brother German.

“ _Ich_ ,” Peter said, pointing to himself, “ _du_ ,” to Erik, “ _er, sie,_ ” to Scott and Raven in turn, “another _sie_ ,” a broad gesture encompassing Scott, Raven, and Wanda. He faltered. “What am I missing?”

Erik counted off on his fingers starting with his thumb, “ _Es, ihr, Sie_.”

Peter ran a hand over his face with a groan. “Why is there another sie?”

“This one's capitalized, it's different,” Erik said with a smirk.

“It's the formal form of you,” Raven explained while Scott took his shot. “Knowing you, you'll never use it anyway.”

“You should still know it,” Erik said. “You'll hear it, even if you choose to be rude.”

“How many sie's are there?” Wanda asked despite herself.

“Three.” Erik leaned back against the couch. “She, they, and you—polite you.”

“And _ihr_ is...plural you?” Peter asked.

“Right,” Erik confirmed.

“So,” Peter mused, “it's y'all?”

Erik paused then frowned. “Uh, ja, I guess.”

“It's y'all.” Raven sunk two balls and moved around the table for her next shot.

Scott leaned on the wall and sighed. “Erik, I think you're playing Raven.”

Raven went around the table, sinking every shot including the eightball, then stood back. “Yup. Erik, you're playing me.”

Erik got up of the floor and held a hand out for Scott's pool cue.

Peter climbed up onto the couch and draped himself over the back of it, arms dangling. “Aren't you worried he's gonna cheat? He seems like he'd cheat. I'd definitely cheat.”

“I can't,” Erik said with exaggerated patience while Raven racked the balls.

“He cheats at everything else, but there's no metal in billiards,” Raven singsonged the last few words. “Table is slate and wood, balls are plastic, cues are wood, and chalk is chalk.”

“And it's not cards, so I can't count,” Erik added for her. “I _could_ wreak some mischief with the nails in the table, but it would ruin the table and I think Charles might actually kill me for that.”

“Screwing with his pool table warrants murder more than what dozen other things?” Wanda asked skeptically. “Does he even play?”

“Do you know where he got this thing?” Raven countered.

Wanda shook her head.

“It's really old,” Raven said. “Pretty sure it's an heirloom, definitely from England, and I'm pretty sure it's worth more than all his cars.”

“Damn,” Scott breathed. “He has nice cars.”

After a moment, Erik and Raven started their game. Wanda made grabby hands at her brother. “Peter. Get me a drink?”

Peter sighed and arched his back over to look at her, grabbing the back of the couch to keep himself from toppling over and cracking open his skull. “Whatcha want?”

Wanda shrugged. “Surprise me.”

“Can do.” In an instant, Peter was standing next to the couch—he'd probably hopped over the back, based on how the blur went. “Anybody else want anything from the kitchen while I'm going?”

Scott raised his hand. “I'll take a soda.”

“Alright, anybody else?” he asked, casting a glance at Erik and Raven.

Erik said, “No.”

Raven shook her head.

“Cool.” With a whush and a less shapeless than usual blur, Peter ran off.

He returned a moment later with a bottle of juice and a can of Cherry Coke, which he handed to his sister and Scott respectively. Scott moved to pop the tab on his can, Wanda started to say “Don't—!” but it was too late. The soda spritzed explosively all over him and he cursed fluently.

Wanda cringed. “You gotta wait a minute before opening anything carbonated that Pete's run with. He shakes it up a lot.”

“Yeah, I fucking noticed,” Scott grumbled, shoulders hunched as he dripped stickily. He huffed. “I'm gonna go shower. I'm just gonna go shower….”

Erik and Raven shared a glance as Scott skulked squelchily out of the room. “Peter,” Erik said slowly, “correct me if I'm wrong, but you could have stopped him from opening that, couldn't you?”

“Uh, yeah….” Peter scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “I didn't really think about it. I, uh, I should clean this up, shouldn't I?”

“Yes,” Wanda, Raven, and Erik all said as one.

“Yeah, I'll do that.”

 

~*~

 

Kurt was still eating a pretzel when he and Warren reappeared on the grounds of the Xavier Institute just before sunset, Kurt's tail wrapped around Warren's wrist to bring him along since his hands were occupied by the pretzel and a packet of mustard. Warren stumbled slightly. “The fact you can do that while eating and not be sick is incredible,” he grumbled, rolling his wrist as Kurt relinquished it.

Kurt titled his head curiously. “Does it make you feel sick?”

“Yes!” Warren fluffed up his wings agitatedly. “Feels like my stomach is trying to come out my nose for half a second. That doesn't happen to you?”

“No.” Kurt shrugged. “ _Es ist angenehm für mich._ Pretzel?” He tore the last of the pretzel in half and held one part out for Warren. Warren glared at him for a moment but then took the proffered pretzel and shoved it in his mouth. The two boys started walking through the grounds, not really toward the house, wending from tree to tree. Kurt took Warren's hand. Warren stretched out one wing to drape it across Kurt's shoulders. Kurt turned a smile on him. “Today has been nice. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Warren mumbled. “So, this is the kind of sappy shit you want, huh?”

“Yes.” Kurt elbowed him. “And it's not sappy. It's nice.”

“Yeah, okay, sure—it's _nice_ ,” Warren acquiesced with a roll of his eyes. “And this was definitely a date.”

“Yes.”

“We agree we have been on a date—we're _dating_.”

“Well...yes?” Kurt agreed, eyeing Warren.

“Wanna fuck now?”

Kurt made rough glottal sound of frustration, dropped Warren's hand and stepped away from him. “ _Nein! Wie oft—_? I will tell you.” He took Warren's face in his hands and looked him in the eyes. “When I want to, _ich schw_ _ö_ _re_ , you will know. So **please** stop asking.”

“Alright, alright,” Warren huffed, batting Kurt's hands away. “I'll quit.”

They walked back to the house, too far apart for their shoulders to brush.

 

Jean slowly chalked the end of her cue, watching Wanda take her turn, but distracted by grumblings at the edges of her mind that she couldn't quite tune out. She sighed. Warren thought _really_ loud.

He came into the rec room a little bit later and flopped onto the couch in front of the TV, face down.

_ISWEARTOFUCKINGGODifIcanhitthefiveball,ignoreWarrenhe'sjustmopingoverKurtagainIsweartogodI'VEDONEWHATHEWANTED,WEWENTONAFUCKINGDATEwithoutknockingtheeightballinITSNOTLIKEI'MGONNASTOPWANTINGITmaybeIcanwinagainSOWHYTHEFUCKWON'THEFUCKME_

“What did you expect?” Jean asked sharply. “He's been pretty clear he's not a vending machine, you don't put dates in and get sex out.”

“Shut up,” Warren snapped without getting up.

Wanda took her shot and made it. “Jean, is this about what I think it's about?”

“Yes.” Jean leaned against the wall. “ _Exactly_ what you think.”

Wanda shook her head and tutted as she moved around the table to line up her next shot—she was seriously about to win a fifth game in a row. She bent to look down her cue. “Kurt seems like the kinda person who plays by the third date rule.” She took a breath, shot, sunk her ball and another on a rebound. “You gotta respect that.”

Warren pushed himself up to glare at Wanda. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Jean said with exaggerated patience, “don't go to bed until _at least_ the third date.”

Warren frowned sourly. “Why?”

“Because you don't wanna let crazy stick his dick in it,” Wanda said with a shrug.

“Or,” Jean allowed, “you don't wanna stick your dick in crazy. But those logistics are for the two of you to work out—two or more dates from now.”

Warren groaned and smushed his face into the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German this chapter:  
> Kurt: You're very beautiful—you know that, right?
> 
> Kurt: It's not worth it.
> 
> Kurt: It's comfortable for me.
> 
> Kurt: No! How often—?  
> Kurt: I swear


	15. Chapter 15

Erik fell into bed with a heavy _whuff_ that made Charles bounce slightly where he was sitting up against the headboard, studying the schedule he'd put together for the campus tours. He looked up and over at Erik. “Tired?”

“Ja.” Erik put his palms over his eyes. “I made the horrible mistake of letting Peter talk me into actually working out with him, rather than sitting by and helping with his German.”

“You didn't try to keep up, did you?” Charles's smirk was audible.

“No. I'm not stupid, I'm just fifty.”

Charles chuckled softly and set aside his file with a _thwack_ of paper on wood. “Turn out the lights.” He ran his fingers through Erik's hair. “And lock the door.”

In one moment the lamp clicked off, the bolt slid to, and Erik moved his hands to look up at Charles. Charles brushed his knuckles over Erik's cheek. “I love you.”

“I really wish you'd stop saying that,” Erik sighed.

“That's not going to happen.” Charles maneuvered himself to lay down next to Erik, on his side to face him. He laced his fingers with Erik's and brought his hand up to kiss his knuckles. Erik pulled his hand away to rub the top of Charles's head.

“You've got some peach fuzz now.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Barely.” He sighed. “I don't think it's coming back.”

“Too soon to say.” Erik hesitated then shifted to kiss Charles's head. As he pulled back, Charles caught his mouth quickly with his own but made no move to keep Erik from breaking away from him.

Charles studied him quietly, blue eyes colorless and sharp in the dark.

“Are you in my head?” Erik asked lowly.

“No. I've told you, if I can help it I won't do that without your permission.” He relaced their fingers and looked down at them. “It's harder when I'm tired or half asleep, especially with you so close, but….” He shook his head.

Erik looked at their joined hands and chewed his lip. “It would be easier for you to not try to stay out, wouldn't it?”

“Yes,” Charles admitted. “But if you don't—”

Erik shook his head and took a breath. “I'm in _your_ bed. And, you've said yourself, at this point there aren't many secrets I still have from you. What's the point?”

“Your comfort,” Charles said softly.

“Yeah well, for your comfort—” Erik shrugged and looked away. “Don't worry about it.”

Charles hugged him and murmured, “Thank you.”

Erik let out a breath, closed his eyes, and wrapped an arm around Charles, feeling the solid muscle of his shoulders through his pajama shirt. Charles kissed Erik's cheek, and nuzzled him. “I feel,” Erik said slowly, “like you're going to take advantage of this.”

Charles pushed away to look at Erik. “Firstly, if you were _that_ concerned you never would have given me permission and you know it. Second, the worst I might do is _exactly_ what you want me to.” He smirked slightly and touched Erik's face. “Go ahead.”

Erik sighed, tried to ignore the uncertainties Charles had chosen not to acknowledge, and kissed him more deeply than he'd allowed himself to before. He was immediately rewarded by Charles's response, kissing Erik back and pressing himself against him. Just as Erik went to slip a hand up under Charles's shirt, Charles started undoing his buttons. He hummed happily at the touch of Erik's broad hand over his chest and rolled back to allow Erik to bridge over him and kiss down his throat.

“Yes, please,” Charles breathed, answering a question Erik hadn't realized he needed to ask. He sat back to strip his own shirt off over his head—Charles pushed himself up, shrugged the rest of the way out of his shirt, threw his arms around Erik's shoulders skin to skin, and kissed him again, each of them breathing the other's air by turns, drowning out the rest of the world. Erik ran a hand over Charles's scalp, down his his neck, and farther. Charles arched into him, fingers curling in the back of his hair, unintentionally pressing Erik's locket chain into his neck with his wrist. Erik's fingers smoothed over the skin of Charles's back along his spine, then they brushed over a tough, ragged defect and he froze.

“Erik.” Charles grabbed his arm to pull hand away. “Don't—”

“I can't do this,” Erik said shakily, very nearly scrambling to disentangle himself from Charles and the sheets to get out of bed.

Charles grabbed him by the wrist. “It's not wrong,” he said sharply.

“I crippled you!” Erik objected.

“Yes, you did.” Charles shifted his hold so he had Erik's hand in both of his own. “And there is nothing either of us can ever do to change that; we have no choice but to live with it. No.” He shook his head emphatically and pressed the back of Erik's hand to his forehead. “It's not that simple. None of this, anything to do with us, is simple, Erik. Our history with each other is strange and complicated. Our relationship is strange and complicated. We—”

“I can't.” Erik pulled his hand away.

“If you can look at me and see Charles, your oldest friend, the man—” he swallowed “—the man you love, whether you'll say it or not, then you _can_. And I know that is how you see me, except for right now.”

“I—”

“And you don't have to,” Charles sighed. “Not tonight, not this week. But don't wall yourself off, not again.” He patted the mattress. “Lay back down. Let's sleep.”

Erik shook his head.

“Please,” Charles said softly. “You didn't ruin my life, I don't hate you, I love you, I want you here, with me, in my bed, in my arms, and you don't want to go.”

Erik ran his hands over his face. “Fuck.”

“Come back to bed, Erik.”

Reluctantly, Erik sat on the edge of the mattress. Charles rubbed his shoulder comfortingly and hugged him from behind. Erik took a rough breath.

“You're allowed to cry.”

Erik shut his eyes and bowed his head. He didn't cry, didn't speak, and hardly breathed.

After a moment, Charles pulled away with a huff. “Look at the scar, Erik.”

“I don't wan't to.”

“I know. You're imagining it as much worse than it is, I promise. Just look at it.”

Erik took a deep breath, then another, and turned to look. Charles had hunched over. Just above the band of his pajama bottoms was the scar. It was—small. Just a little starburst divot, perfectly centered. Charles nodded without looking over his shoulder and Erik reached out to touch the scar.

“Nothing to be scared of,” Charles murmured.

“I'm so sorry.”

“I know.” Charles turned and smoothed Erik's hair away from his face. “I know. Do you want to talk abou—No. Okay.” He leaned up to kiss Erik's cheek. “Let's sleep? Yeah?”

Erik nodded. “Ja.”

 

~*~

 

Erik woke to gentle fingers smoothing the same piece of hair behind his ear over and over and over and over. He didn't open his eyes. Charles hummed softly but didn't change his movements.

Charles. Erik gripped the sheets.

“We should talk.” Charles's words were soft. He stopped petting Erik's hair and hugged him instead.

Erik snorted.

“Because there are things you need to hear said.”

With a sigh, Erik rolled over to face him. Charles's eyes were so damn blue, it was unnerving, they were too bright, they—

Charles smiled slightly. “You have pretty eyes, too.”

Erik swallowed and looked away.

“C'mon,” Charles murmured, brushing Erik's hair off his forehead, “talk to me.”

“This is wrong.”

“Why?”

“You should hate me.”

“But I don't.”

Erik studied his face. “Why not?”

Charles shrugged one shoulder. “I understand. I may disagree with your reasoning but I follow why you've done the things you've done, and I can't say any of it was wholly unwarranted. Usually not the right thing, from my perspective, but not wholly unwarranted. You're not evil.”

Erik's mouth twitched.

“You're not,” Charles said firmly. “If you were you would not be here, if for no other reason than that I'd be dead.” He took Erik's hand. “Why else do you think this is wrong?”

Erik took a breath to speak, the sound stuck in his throat, he looked down at their hands, and tried again. “My wife and daughter were just murdered.”

“And…?” Charles prompted gently.

“And—” Erik rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling and pulled his hand away, “I shouldn't be going around like that doesn't matter.”

“You aren't, though.” Charles pushed himself up onto an elbow. “The fact you're worried that you're...disrespecting them or, to use Scott's words, not grieving right—that proves it does matter. You think about them all the time. I know how much you love them, will always love them, and how much that loss hurts you no matter how well you keep yourself together.” He lay a hand on Erik's chest, over his locket, over his heart. “Loving others—me, Peter, Wanda—doesn't take any love away from them.”

Erik sat up and folded his legs under him. He fiddled with the locket, running his thumb over the edge. “It's still _shloshim_.”

Behind him, Erik heard Charles take a breath. He remembered when he was young, years before the war, his grandfather had died. He remembered the whole family in the living room, his father tearing his shirt. The funeral. A neighbor—Rachel with the dark hair, dead now, shot in the street when it all went bad, blood on the broken glass—cooking for them, eggs and fresh bread. Then sitting around for a week, _shiva_ , with all the mirrors covered. Then for a month, his father not shaving, his Tante Miriam—father's sister, dead, went on the train before them—snapping at him to turn the radio off in her sharp Hochdeutsch, that his grandfather hadn't been buried thirty days yet.

“Oh,” Charles let out the breath he'd taken.

“The eleventh,” Erik said shortly. He let got of the locket. “They'll have been buried thirty days on the eleventh. Three days.”

Charles was quiet a moment. He shifted around to sit up better and reached out to scritch at Erik's stubble. “I don't think anyone would have minded if you'd stopped shaving.”

Erik shrugged.

“You never got to mourn your parents either.”

Erik shook his head, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. “I'm a really shitty jew.”

“Not exactly your fault, most of that.”

“But now that I can—”

“You do. Not as strictly as some, but you do.” Charles held up his palms. “I'm allegedly Anglican but I honestly haven't got a clue what makes that different from Catholic other than the divorce thing, I haven't been to church since—oh, wow, undergrad? Maybe? And I haven't observed Lent since before that. Even when I did, I just went through the motions because I was supposed to. But you observe your practices because they really mean something to you, you believe in them. I, for one, think that difference matters.”

“Maybe.”

Charles rubbed his arm. “In any case, whatever doubts you have about us, worries, discomforts—you can talk to me about them. I want you to. We can talk about whatever's on your mind. Just, please, don't shut me out. I think our history will attest that things start going badly when you start shutting me out.”

Erik turned to look at Charles. “You're not wrong, but I'm keeping the helmet.”

Charles chuckled. “That's reasonable.” He took Erik's hand and kissed it. “Help me get dressed?”

“Yeah.” Erik got up and went over to Charles's closet. “What do you—”

“I trust you.” Charles flashed him a smile while disentangling himself from the sheets and his pillows so he could get himself out of bed into his chair.

Erik snorted and turned to frown at Charles's comprehensive selection of business casual. He'd never actually picked clothes out for Charles before. Helped him, sure, but he wasn't usually awake until after Charles had started getting dressed. He paused, pastel yellow buttonfront in hand. Charles hadn't gone to the gym that morning.

“You're more important,” Charles explained simply. “The navy trousers to your left go well with that shirt—the pinstriping's actually yellow if you look closely.”

 

Once they were both dressed and cleaned up for the day, they went down to breakfast, and were immediately accosted by Hank.

“Charles,” Hank said, very nearly tripping over himself, “the campus tours are tomorrow—”

“Yes, I'm aware,” Charles said. “I scheduled them.”

“—and we haven't really gone through logistics—”

“We will,” Charles assured him, “after breakfast. Sit down, Hank. You're making Erik nervous.”

Hank glanced at Erik, pushing up his glasses as he did. “Sorry.”

“It's fine,” Erik dismissed. He grabbed himself a mug and pulled the coffee pot toward him from the far end of the table.

“He's been like this since he got here,” Warren grumbled around a strip of bacon. “It's obnoxious.”

“You're obnoxious,” Jean countered.

“I wasn't talking to you,” Warren spat. Kurt's tail whipped his shoulder sharply. “Ow!”

“I just want to make sure we have everything in order before tomorrow,” Hank said defensively.

“And you're thinking about every little thing that could possibly go wrong,” Jean said, brandishing her cereal spoon. “You really need to chill, Dr. McCoy. Please.” She glared at Warren. “And you need to shut up.”

“I didn't say anything!” Warren objected.

Charles sighed and buttered himself a piece of toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No German this chapter.


	16. Chapter 16

After breakfast, the teachers gathered in Charles's office, his notes and files for the next day laid out on his desk. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day,” Charles said. “Thirteen hours of tours, starting at six-thirty in the morning, going to seven-thirty in the evening, assuming things don't run over too badly.” He handed out paper copies of the time table, starting with Hank. “There are breaks built into the schedule, including an hour for lunch, but it's still going to be a bit of a marathon, I'm afraid. That's the price we pay for getting all the tours in on one day.”

Erik eyed the schedule dubiously. “Remind me why we wanted them all on the same day?”

“Because I think it's best to keep the number of days we all have to be publicly presentable to a bare minimum,” Charles said flatly.

The windows rattled softly behind him.

“Good point,” Raven sighed.

“Exactly.” Charles continued. “As you can see, I have us divvied up into three tour groups: myself, Hank, and Raven and Erik. Since the both of you are new to the school, I figured you could use each other's support.”

“Honestly,” Raven said, “I'm more worried about the fact we're both wanted criminals.”

“That might be a problem.” Hank fidgeted with the corner of his schedule.

“It's not, actually.” Charles grinned. “Raven, the authorities have no idea you're responsible for your outstanding crimes and they've been allowed to go cold—yes, I looked into it. And Erik, most of the charges against you have been dropped, and you've been pardoned for a few other things.”

“Who did you blackmail?” Erik asked incredulously.

“No one.” Charles held his palms up. “The most I did was put in a good word or two, attesting to your motives or lack thereof. For the most part, cases have been dropped due to lack of evidence.”

“Chain of custody got broken.” Raven shrugged.

Erik eyed her. “What did _you_ do?”

“Nothing at all, the cops fucked up all on their own.”

“The only outstanding warrant for you is somewhere the U.S. doesn't extradite to, so you may want to introduce yourself under a different surname purely for appearances' sake, but legally we ought to be fine.”

Hank frowned. “Where won't we extradite to?”

As one, Charles and Erik said, “Cuba.”

“When were you in Cuba?” Raven asked.

“You were there, Raven,” Charles said.

She shook her head. “I've never been to Cuba.”

“The beach, Raven,” Erik said to the floor. “We were all there.”

“Oh.” Raven smacked her forehead. “I'm an idiot. I forgot where that was.”

Erik fidgeted uncomfortably. Hank cleared his throat. “Looks like each group is doing five tours?”

“Yes.” Charles picked up a page of his notes. “There's sixteen families coming but the Gradys and the Sagers are sharing—Hank, they'll be with you after lunch.” He held out a file folder to Hank. “These are all your families. Erik, Raven, these are yours—the two of you have some of the more, shall we say, desperate families. I don't expect they'll take much convincing to send their children here, just try to reassure them that their children being mutants isn't the end of the world.”

“Right,” Erik agreed.

“I've tried to save out for myself the families I think will need more persuading. I've also taken the six-thirty time slot. Hank, you'll be starting at at seven, and the two of you at seven-thirty. Tours are on the half hour, should last roughly ninety minutes start to finish, and will be overlapping. Start by getting to know the kid, their abilities, how they stand—I have their school disciplinary and academic records in the files but that doesn't tell us much. Show the family around. Our summer boarders, I hope, will be around and making a good impression. Once you've gotten through the mansion and a bit of the grounds—have I given you the maps? No, here they are.” He handed out printed maps with tour routes traced onto them. “There you are. As you can see, you ought to be ending near the rec room. I'm hoping some of the boarders will be there so you can leave the prospective students with them to ask their own questions without parental pressure or judgement, while you take the parents to the classrooms down the hall to discuss things that the kids either don't care about or maybe shouldn't hear—like money, and the parents' concerns about their children.”

“Reasonable,” Raven said, eyeing the map in her hand.

Erik flipped through the file in his hands, frowning slightly. The brass paperweight on Charles's desk hopped about an inch, then fell to the floor. Everyone looked at it. Erik pointed. “That wasn't me.”

A handful of books flew off their shelves. For a heartbeat everything was still, then a ceramic bookend shattered.

In an instant, Charles was headed out the door, fingers to his temple. Erik, Raven, and Hank exchanged looks, then Erik strode out after Charles, hand outstretched down the hall, fingers clawed.

 

~*~

 

Jean was screaming. Warren was cowering, and hanging a couple feet above the floor, one wing stretched up behind him at an awkward angle, hands over his face. Kurt and Jubilee were hiding behind the stairs, Kurt peeking between the railing, eyes wide, Jubilee curled up with her face in her knees, arms crossed over her head. And everything in the foyer that wasn't nailed down was flying through the air, zipping dangerously close to Warren, clipping him intermittently.

“Jean,” Charles said firmly but cautiously. “Jean, listen to me. You need to calm down. Think about—”

“Shut up!” Jean shrieked, wheeling on him, her red hair whipping around her face like fire.

Erik came striding up, helmet in his hands, which he plopped on Jean's head. She froze. Everything fell, including Warren, who crumpled to the floor with a thud. Panting, he pushed himself up. “You psycho cunt!”

“ _Raus!_ ” Erik snapped at Warren. Kurt scrambled over, grabbed his boyfriend by the arm, and vanished them both with a pop and plume of sulfurous smoke. Jean lifted her hands to her head. “Nei-eh-uh-uh-uh,” Erikobjected wordlessly, quickly taking her small, delicate hands in his own rough, scarred ones. “Leave it on.”

She stared at him and whispered. “It's so quiet.”

“Yeah, that's the idea.” He turned over his shoulder. “Charles?”

“Come with me, Jean,” Charles said gently, taking her hand from Erik. “We need to work on your control….”

Jean nodded a little and went with Charles. Erik went to Jubilee. “Are you alright?”

Jubilee took a breath. “I'm okay.”

 

Charles closed the door behind himself and Jean down inthe basement. She'd been unnervingly quiet the whole way down, fingering the corner of Erik's helmet.

“Jean, look at me.”

She did, green eyes downcast, looking quite young.

“What happened back there?”

She shook her head. “I couldn't take it. With the tours tomorrow, everyone's—and Warren. Warren!”

“I know,” Charles said gently. “But you have to learn to either tune it all out, or ignore it.”

“I can't!” Jean took a sharp, shaky breath.

“Yes, you **can** ,” Charles insisted. “It's not easy to learn, but you are capable. I know you are. And I can help you, I want to help you, but all the help I can give will do you no good if you go into it convinced it won't work.”

She shook her head and looked away.

Charles patted her hand. “Let's take this off, hm? It's just you and me in here, and these walls do quite the job of muffling the rest of the house. Come now, I didn't think anyone could look as ridiculous as Erik in this thing.”

Jean gave a choked half laugh, sniffed, and carefully took off the helmet.

Charles smiled a little. “There. Not so loud in here, hm?”

“Yeah.” Jean nodded. She looked down and tapped a finger on the metal. “I like this helmet.”

“You can't use it as a crutch, Jean.”

“Nothing else works, Professor.”

“You're usually not so bad, you know that. I think you also know, though, that you can't afford to lose control. You're too strong.”

“I'm dangerous.” Jean's voice caught and she cleared her throat.

“Frankly, yes,” Charles said. “Those of us like you, and me, and Erik—Scott and Ororo as well, in their own ways—who can do so much, we are dangerous. And we scare people, including ourselves.”

Jean nodded, looked to the ceiling, and put her hands over her face.

Charles rubbed her arm. “Breathe, Jean. You're allowed to cry. Then, let's try some meditation, shall we?”

 

Kurt and Warren landed on the grass at the edge of the estate near the gate. Warren dropped onto his butt with a whuff.For a moment, he just stared into the distance. “She was actually going to kill me.”

“I don't know about killing,” Kurt hedged, “but she was sure ready to hurt you. What did you **do**?”

“Nothing! I think.” Warren ran a hand through his hair and scratched at where the shaved bits were growing back in thickly, darker than the sun-bleached top. “I don't know. I didn't say anything—you know I didn't say anything.” He took a shaky breath. “I thought she was gonna break my wing.”

Kurt sighed, sat next to him, slipped a hand into the racerback of Warren's tanktop, and rubbed at the joint of his wing. Warren leaned on Kurt's shoulder and closed his eyes.

“She's fucking terrifying,” he breathed.

“Didn't you fight her?” Kurt asked.

“That was...different,” Warren huffed.

“Mm,” Kurt hummed doubtfully. He leaned in to kiss Warren softly. “I'm glad you're alright.”

“I'm glad we're kissing again,” Warren said with a grin. “After yesterday.”

Kurt shoved his shoulder.

Someone cleared their throat and Kurt and Warren turned to find the Maximoffs standing at the gate.

“Hey, sorry,” Peter said, hands in his pockets, “but do you know if it's safe to go back to the house?”

“No idea.” Warren pushed himself up to his feet.

Frowning, Kurt said, “The two of you weren't even there, why are you out here?”

“We were in my room,” Wanda explained. “The bulb in my desk lamp exploded, next thing I know Pete's setting me on my feet at the far end of the driveway.” She shrugged.

“Was it Jean?” Peter asked.

“Yeah.” Warren crossed his arms. “She went completely mental, tried to kill me.”

“I think if she were really trying to kill you, you'd be dead,” Kurt pointed out, standing himself.

Warren glared at him. “You were agreeing with me a minute ago.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“Okay!” Peter clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I'm gonna go back to the house, assuming it's still standing. Who wants to come with me? Wanda? Good.”

With a blur, the twins were gone. Warren huffed. “Prick.”

“Can you blame them?” Kurt asked.

“Yes.”

Kurt sighed.

 

Most of the school was in the entry, taking care of the aftermath of Jean's fit—Scott and Erik setting a sideboard on its feet, Ororo and Hank with dustpan and broom—when the door banged open and Peter and Wanda were suddenly there. Everyone looked up at them for about half a second before going back to what they were doing.

“Hey, Pete,” Scott said. “You wanna maybe help?”

Blankfaced, Peter let his head lull toward Scott. “Because I'm fast?”

“Because you're fast,” Scott confirmed.

Peter rolled his eyes, snatched the dustpan and handbroom from Ororo, and sped to work. Wanda gestured to the stairs. “I'm gonna go clean up the broken glass in my room.”

“It's a good thing the cleaning crew were coming this afternoon anyway,” Hank muttered as she passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German this chapter:  
> Erik: Get out!


End file.
